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Sissy Room
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Started? When I was born up until 4. Re-started at 12/13. Got caught and took a "hiatus" until 16/17. Then, as of 26, off and on whenever I feel like it (and have any). -
By Blastoslap · Posted
If Sofie writes a letter to Nestlé management asking them to stop producing my favorite banana chocolate bars, I'll call her a bad toddler too, and this time it will be justified. -
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By technomonkey · Posted
I am lucky, I got a wife that's in to sewing she has fixed my Bodysuit. -
The show had unfolded like a kaleidoscope—spinning, sparkling, shifting from one act to the next, each performance blending into the next like pages in a scrapbook of childhood and almost-adulthood moments. Even from the wings, Libby felt the pulse of the room, the way it rose and dipped as each group of girls claimed their few minutes under the lights. Her heart had been racing since the house lights dimmed. The youngest group went first—a trio of girls no taller than the barre itself, giggling as they wobbled through a candy‑colored jazz routine. One lost her ribbon halfway through and froze for a beat before deciding it made an excellent snake. Another waved to her mom mid‑twirl, her ponytail flopping. The audience melted. The applause was the bright, bursting kind—the kind that made the stage feel warmer. Next came the contemporary piece—older girls in flowing gray and plum skirts, their long limbs carving arcs through the dimness as a haunting piano rippled through the speakers. There was a sharp gasp when a lift hovered for a fraction too long, tipping dangerously before landing with a collective exhale. Miss Dubois stood in the aisle, one hand pressed to her chest like she’d survived both a heart attack and a standing ovation in the same breath. The third act shot onto the stage like confetti—sparkling leotards, tap shoes clattering like rain on the roof, the girls spinning in dizzying sync. It was polished chaos, just the right amount, the kind that made parents grin and elbow each other, whispering things like, “She’s the one in the gold, second from the left!” Libby always loved that sound. It made her feel what Rosebridge was—proud, imperfect, earnest. Then came the quiet before the storm: the elegant duet. Two advanced ballet students moving like clockwork gears dressed in tulle—precise, patient, so in tune with each other that the audience barely breathed. Their arabesques unfolded like petals opening. The stage felt like a chapel for a moment. And backstage—where the air tasted of dust, hairspray, and nerves—Libby waited. She was next. Every few seconds she smoothed her hair, even though it had already been smoothed into submission by Rachel an hour ago. From where she stood, she could see shadows of the audience, the warm blur of faces, the impossible brightness of the stage lights. Dana stepped back onto the stage now, a little breathless, still glowing from the emotional high of her earlier monologue. The spotlight slid across her sequined jumpsuit, turning it into a river of reflections that danced across the walls. She gave the crowd a moment to settle. But her eyes weren’t on them. They were searching stage left. When Dana spotted Libby in the wings, she hesitated—not in nerves, but in emotion, as if something warm rose unexpectedly in her throat. Her breath caught. Her cue card tilted slightly. And then she smiled in a way that made Libby’s stomach flutter. “So this next performer,” Dana began, her voice softer than before, “I’ve known her for a while. Before all this.” She gestured loosely at the elegant room—the velvet seats, the polished floor, the families leaning in with anticipation. “But I didn’t really know her until the last six weeks. And I didn’t expect to—because sometimes when two people are as different as we were, they stay that way.” A ripple of quiet amusement spread through the room. Dana’s mouth quirked. “And then something weird and magical happens. You both get thrown into this world of ballet rehearsals and shared snacks and late‑night pep talks and panic attacks over etiquette presentations… and suddenly you’re not so different anymore.” Libby swallowed hard. Her eyes stung. Dana glanced toward the wings again—right at her. The warmth in her expression softened into something a little glassy. “She’s been fierce. She’s been brilliant. She’s been surprisingly patient with a certain someone—” Dana tossed her hair with a self‑mocking grin that earned a laugh, “—and I’m honored to introduce her tonight.” She squared her shoulders, proud and certain in that way only Dana could pull off. “Please welcome to the stage… Miss Elizabeth Hemsworth. Or as we like to call her… Libby.”
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