OutroTipoDeEfeito

Developer
KorraFocus
Size
8,270 Kb
Views
8,096
  1. OutroTipoDeEfeito Previews
  2. OutroTipoDeEfeito HTML Codes
  3. OutroTipoDeEfeito CSS Codes

How do I make an outrotipodeefeito?

What is a outrotipodeefeito? How do you make a outrotipodeefeito? This script and codes were developed by KorraFocus on 08 December 2022, Thursday.

OutroTipoDeEfeito Previews
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OutroTipoDeEfeito - Script Codes HTML Codes

<!DOCTYPE html>
<html >
<head> <meta charset="UTF-8"> <title>OutroTipoDeEfeito</title> <link rel="stylesheet" href="css/style.css">
</head>
<body> <center>
<div style="width: 400px; padding: 20px; background-color: #fff; border: 1px solid #eee;"> <div class="bbnm"><b>mirabelle evans</b>, <i>mirabellered</i></div>
<link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Arimo' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'>
<div style="width: 400px; height: 200px; margin: 20px 0px; background-image: url(https://67.media.tumblr.com/5710665caeea8073a9ffed93d174df09/tumblr_inline_mm1191qB3e1qz4rgp.gif); background-site:cover; border:1px solid black;"><div class="bbao"><div class="bboc"><div style="position: relative; top: 50px;"><div class="bbal" style="font-family: 'Arimo', sans-serif;">Mirabelle</div><div class="bbat" style="color:#fff;">prole de Gullveig
</div></div></div></div></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 20px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
<td><div class="bbpp">mar, go.</div>
<div class="bbpp2">dancer</div></td>
<td><div class="bbpp">twenty one</div>
<div class="bbpp2">turnt</div></td>
<td><div class="bbpp">she/her</div>
<div class="bbpp2">demisexual</div></td>
<td><div class="bbpp1">new york, new york</div>
<div class="bbpp3">sasha luss</div></td>
</table></div>
<div class="bbpd1"><div class="bbpd2">
<center>
<b>trigger warning:</b> <i>drug use, suggested child abuse, taboo and other sob stories</i>.<BR><BR>
<div style="width: 200px; text-align: justify;">
she floats on air; she is a swan, a sylph, an apparition haunting the imaginations of those assembled spectators who look on her. throughout her history she has been perceived as not a person but the embodiment of perfection. she is an aesthetic art with pointed toes and boneless arms painted on a stage, she is not a person. she is an otherworldly creature occupying a realm unknown to man. she is an unblemished, ethereal creature. true inspiration incarnate – elongated neck and flesh as pale and translucent as the common wore leotard. stylized by the theater, she is the plagued ideal image of femininity and chaste. above all things, she appears inaccessible, and unravished, on her virginal pedestal. she is an entity, fluttering across the stage, drawing the eyes of young girls who go home to their parents, twirling on their tip toes while gleefully shouting, “look at me, look at me, i’m a ballerina!” she exhumes celestial movements and abilities in the persistent perception throughout history that the ballerina is sublimely beautiful, breathtakingly delicate, and perfection personified. she looks into the lighted mirror, her chest rapidly rising and falling as she wipes the rouge from her cheeks. she is a ballerina – <i>look away, look away</i>.
</div><BR><BR><BR>
<div style="width: 300px; text-align: justify; text-transform: lowercase;">
janine charrat is my favorite dancer. the ballerina who became a living torch. it made headlines, it was a big deal. a ballerina spinning across a stage, screaming in agony because she had caught fire backstage. whenever i retire, i hope i retire the same way she did. go out in flames, you know? she was a twelve year old ballerina prodigy, and i guess we have that in common. i still remember my mother angrily leaving the studio, grabbing me by my arm and muttering about how my instructor refused to enroll me into pointe classes until i was twelve. no one ever told my mother that it’s not healthy for an eight year old who’s bones are still developing to spend all day on their toes. that’s where my mother would have me if she could, poised and posed on my toes all day long while she tells all her friends how her daughter is a principal dancer in new york city. charrat did not believe in movement for movement’s sake, and i’ve always thought that was kind of poetic. especially in her demise. fire was used in ballet and she actually fucking caught fire before the intermission ended. she was on the floor, half dead from being burned alive when they caught her muttering <i>’come emma livry!’</i> over and over again. a lot of people say she was lucky – she could have died that day. i always wish i could ask her if she did – because there is no such thing as an ugly ballerina and a charred pound of flesh does not appease the spectator’s eye. </p>
of course, these days it would be considered avant garde.</p>
that’s what wrong with the fucking industry. everyone is trying to be modern and politically correct. but that really only goes so far – it looks that way on the outside, and they might cast the sob story for a role or two but to be great you have to be the fucking perfect dancer. forget contemporary or that ballet you saw where they incorporated modern music into the production, it’s new age and super cool for about a month. you’re never going to impress the elite if you can’t dance with the elite. ballet is an industry that is never going to change, people try to change it all the time and it never sticks. trust me. janine charrat is my favorite dancer because she told a story that no one seems to listen to, for all it’s transcendent beauty ballet is fraught with hidden dangers. as dancers we don’t listen, because for whatever reason we dance, we can’t ever really stop. </p>
i watch my mother in the mirror, she counts on her fingers the days she should have left for her prescription and rubs her fingers tiresomely into her temples. she shakes her head and i watch the thought of having taken more of her prescription then she thought she had wave over her face. my mother is a cliché. she is a born again mother who is consistently telling me how much she loves me. me, the prodigal fucking daughter. i graduated from being the little unwanted bastard bitch when i was six and she married thomas goodnight. she smiles at me and move across the room with pill in hand to press her mouth against my cheek as i turn from side to side to examine the dress against my slender body. when she kisses me, when she boasts about me, it takes every fiber of my being not to pull away. she smiles and silently toasts me as she throws her head back to chase the xanax in her mouth with a glass of champagne. </p>
oh, mother. </p>
i suppose she has too much to hide. the pills make it easier. i, on the other hand, have too much to carry. that’s why i stole six of her xanax and placed them in the lining of my bra when her back was turned. i’m nearly naked standing in the middle of her bedroom with nothing on but my underwear, holding the dark blue dress to my body in front of a mirror. that’s how my mother likes me – naked and exposed, free to exploit and gain from. i became the center of her universe when one woman pulled her aside and expressed admiration for what a talented young daughter she had. my mother enrolled me in dance classes when she got married because she wanted me out of the way while she started her new life with thomas. thomas thought it was a good idea because my stepfather is genuinely a nice person who knew i decorated my room with ballerinas and princesses. it seems hard to believe i was one of those frivolous girls who liked pink, dolls and playing dress up. my childhood wasn’t exactly long lived. as soon as i took an interest in dance, the rug of my careless confidence and child naivety was ripped out from under me. </p>
<i>’we’re a very unlucky pair’</i> my mother would say to me as a child. there isn’t much about my childhood that i remember as being particularly pleasing, but as i am standing in front of the mirror of my stepfather’s elegant home it is hard to remember what life was like before him. i remember an apartment that smelled of mold, dripping pipes, cate urine from the woman upstairs who owned seven cats, and the faint aroma of new york poverty. i was born in that apartment, i think my mother lived through her entire pregnancy as though she wasn’t pregnant at all because even in the end she ignored her labor pains until i came out into the hands of one of our neighbors. it might have even been the cat lady – i don’t know. i know it wasn’t charlie, the man across the hall who looked just like buddy holly. i know this because i can remember charlie more vividly than anything else from my childhood. </p>
charlie moved into the apartment down the hall and would watch me through the peephole of his front door as i scuttled to school. at the time i treasured him as my only childhood friend. he pulled the splinters from my hands, gave me chocolates behind my mother’s back and pressed his mouth to my mouth. now i can look back and recognize charlie for what he was – a predator. to be honest, my life has been plagued by predators. charlie was just the first of many. it’s wrong, but charlie – he <i>was</i> my friend. he destroyed a part of me while he nurtured another part. i guess you’d have to be me to understand. </p>
i step into the dress, pulling it’s thin straps over my shoulders. the night was so far from my vague childhood which i rarely remember that it hardly seems relevant. my mother, oh how she loves her parties. ever since she stepped out of poverty and into the goodnight name, she blossomed. i’ve long since lost my shadow self of being the bastard mistake and become her prodigal daughter. though – if i gave up dancing tomorrow, i should think my mother would love me less. in the dress she’s bought for me, she kisses my cheek and tells me i’m beautiful before leaning against her four poster bed. i really don’t know what drew thomas and my mother together. i smile at her because i’m a good girl, i’m obedient, and at twenty one years old i still do as mother tells me to. people can be quick to judge the relationship i have with my mother. i have begun to appreciate any affections from her that i can get. even when she suggested i blow the choreographer for a leading role when i was sixteen, i loved her no less. </p>
<b>“i’m so proud of you, go,”</b> she murmurs as she drinks from her slender glass of champagne. she will host a party tonight, celebrating my reprising role as giselle in the production of the same name. the closer to perfection i get, the more i feel her love and the more she smothers me. i love her though, and spent years yearning for her to love me in return. this is why i tolerate her inserting herself into my career and ruling my life with an iron fist. even moments before, she waved the help away before i could be offered a glass of champagne from henriette. henriette, the woman who i’d only ever known to show me a mother’s love as she held my feet in her hands while i sobbed into a pillow late at night. she’d kiss my toes and rub the bones of my feet so tenderly i could feel all my woes lifting away. ever since i was fourteen years old my life has been exploited and ruled by mother, <i>my biggest fan</i>. she’s clap her hands together and yell again over and over until it haunted my dreams. i often thought i might wake from my dreams in the middle of my room mid fouette. henriette would kiss my hair and rub my sore and tender limbs. they were very different women. </p>
there are a lot of people who think i dance for my mother. ask any dancer, we all dance for someone but at the end of the day what keeps us going back for more isn’t anyone but ourselves. we like the pain, the suffering, the cutthroat competition. you have to be a masochist to be a dancer. your toenails fall off, you have to massage your legs to get out of bed and go to nine hour long rehearsal just hoping you’re going to get the chance to dance a role that might give your five minutes of spotlight. we do it because we love to dance, we do it because we love the pain. the pain of my mother’s burden insights movement. without my contradiction of love and resentment towards her, i’d never have left the chorus line. the chorus line! hah! over my dead body would i ever return to the dreaded spot that the bottom dwellers claw and scratch for. my eyes follow her as she moves across the room and shuts the door to the bathroom behind her. there is a wave of relief, as if the air finally returns to the atmosphere as soon as she leaves. </p>
<b>“check you out, princess.”</b></p>
his voice is the best thing ever. it cracks the way ice does when you pour liquid into a glass. i glance in the mirror at him and tighten my jaw the way i do whenever he’s around. he leans casually against the door frame. his eyes touch my skin and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. he reminds me of a skull, the sunglasses over his eyes mirroring concaved sockets of empty eyes. he is beautifully and wonderfully white, his skin almost translucent pulled over his face. he is junky-thin, his pants hang from his hips delightfully held up by a worn black leather belt. i pull my lip into my mouth and smooth the silken fabric of my dress. he is another predator – unlike the spectators, choreographers or childhood friend, he is a monster unlike any other. his tongue moves over his lips and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. he is the worst predator i have met in my life because he sees me – the real me. he caught me once sifting through my mother’s vanity in a dinner intermission, searching for her bank of prescription pills. he placed a tramadol on my tongue and pressed his mouth to my mouth, digging his fingers into my hips leaving half shaped moon bruises in my skin. </p>
i watch him through the mirror, his eyes meeting mine after i see him trail up my backside. he kissed me once when i was fourteen, it was my first kiss and an awkward tangle of tongues. again when i was seventeen, when he placed the tramadol on my tongue. i hope he’d take long strides over the room, press his wide mouth against mine again and hold the balls of my shoulders, hold them as if he could crush the bones and splinter them in his hands. </p>
<b>”alright, go,”</b> my mother’s voice breaks the charged atmosphere between us, <b>”off with the dress, I don’t want you spilling anything on it before the party.”</b></p>
i watch him through the mirror and he purses his lips into a crooked smirk, my mother catches my derived attention and quickly snaps her own toward my stepbrother. she crosses the room in a storm of heels clicking against the floor and slams the door in his face before turning around and glaring at me. when my mother married Thomas goodnight, she married into a family. Thomas had two sons, both of whom my mother hates and I love. The eldest, in ways that might be considered taboo and the youngest like a brother I’d never had. The three of us share a sister, a thirteen year old obnoxious little bitch who’s as bad as my mother. Portia spends the majority of her time on social media sites pretending to be older then she is. She likes me as much as I like her.</p>
i place a hand over my flattened stomach and look to either side of me and examine the dress before pulling it's straps over my bony shoulders. janine charrat is my favorite dancer because that is what my life feels like – dancing on fire as my mother fans the flames. </p>
</div>
</body>
</html>

OutroTipoDeEfeito - Script Codes CSS Codes

.bbpp { width: 99px; height: 29px; line-height: 29px; border-right: 1px solid #eee; border-bottom: 1px solid #eee; background-color: #fff; font-family: poppins; font-size: 6px; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; color: #777; text-align: center; }
.bbpp1 { width: 99px; height: 29px; line-height: 29px; border-bottom: 1px solid #eee; background-color: #fff; font-family: poppins; font-size: 6px; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; color: #777; text-align: center; }
.bbpp2 { width: 99px; height: 30px; line-height: 30px; border-right: 1px solid #eee; background-color: #fff; font-family: poppins; font-size: 6px; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; color: #777; text-align: center; }
.bbpp3 { width: 99px; height: 30px; line-height: 30px; background-color: #fff; font-family: poppins; font-size: 6px; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; color: #777; text-align: center; }
.bbao { width: 400px; height: 200px; overflow: hidden; }
.bbao:hover .bboc { margin-top: 0px; -moz-transition-duration: 1s; -webkit-transition-duration: 1s; -o-transition-duration: 1s; }
.bbpd1 { width: 350px; height: 250px; padding: 25px; background: #fff; }
.bboc { width: 400px; height: 200px; margin-top: 200px; background-image: url(https://i.imgur.com/DrXxqgz.png); -moz-transition-duration: 1s; -webkit-transition-duration: 1s; -o-transition-duration: 1s; }
.bbpd2 { width: 340px; height: 250px; padding-right: 5px; overflow: auto; text-align: justify; font-size: 9px; line-height: 140%; color: #888; font-family: lato; }
.bbpd2::-webkit-scrollbar { width: 9px; background: #fff;}
.bbpd2::-webkit-scrollbar-thumb { background-color: #eee; border-left: 4px solid #fff; border-right: 4px solid #fff; }
.bbpd2 b { color: #222; font-weight: bold; }
.bbal { width: 170px; height: 30px; line-height: 30px; border-bottom: 1px solid #eee; font-family: maven pro; text-transform: uppercase; color: #fff; font-size: 25px; letter-spacing: -1px; text-align: center; padding: 5px; }
.bbat { width: 170px; height: 30px; padding: 10px 5px 5px; border-bottom: 1px solid #fff; font-family: poppins; font-size: 7px; font-weight: bold; text-transform: uppercase; color: #aaa; text-align: center; line-height: 200%; }
.bbnm { width: 400px; padding: 0px 0px 5px; border-bottom: 1px solid #eee; font-family: arial; line-height: 100%; font-size: 9px; text-transform: uppercase; color: #444; text-align: left; letter-spacing: 1px; font-style: italic; }
.proapp { margin: 20px 0px; padding-left: 20px; border-left: 1px solid #eee; }
OutroTipoDeEfeito - Script Codes
OutroTipoDeEfeito - Script Codes
Home Page Home
Developer KorraFocus
Username TutoHebbo
Uploaded December 08, 2022
Rating 3
Size 8,270 Kb
Views 8,096
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KorraFocus (TutoHebbo) Script Codes
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CaixaMembros
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A Pen by KorraFocus
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