( !! ) hello every body, i reached 3k followers a few days ago ( !! )
it’s been tough days for me and you all know why. sistar’s disbandment whas the last thing i expected to happen and it broke my heart, BUT i am still here and waiting for a new era for them to come. and for me, too. i’m not going anywhere, y’all !
There’s no back story worth telling. I found Sculpy, and I made a Feegle maquette. Of course I did.
You can read this in a Soothby’s auctioneer voice, if it makes you happy:
This life-sized (5.5 in, not including the hair) Rob Anybody statuette is constructed of antique Sculpy – dated to at least 2003 and amazingly still malleable – tin foil, and paperclips. The hair was selected after an extensive deliberation over whether it was preferable to use yarn that was technically brick red, or full of sparkly bits. The sparkly bits yarn won on the grounds that what the fuck ever, he’s from Fairy Land. While the sheath is in place on his back, the claymore itself is missing from the right hand because it tips the whole thing over. The artist has so far resisted the urge to glue a dead beetle in his hair, but who knows.
Tiffany had kept herself busy while Sam was away, doing whatever he had to. She never asked where he was headed, as it wasn’t for her to know, all she had to know is what he would tell her. So the girl finished all the chores around the house just before hearing him enter the front door. With a happy grin, the girl almost ran down the stairs to meet him, wearing her typical clothes for chores around the house: short shorts that barely covered some of her round behind, bikini top which looked like it might almost burst from her big breasts bouncing in it, and high heels. “Daddy, you’re home!”Tiffany breathed out, big blue hues looking at him like a dumb puppy in love. “How was your day?”
When Sam had gotten home from another day at the office, he wasn’t surprised to find that he had walked in to the distinct smell of baking. Actually, to be more accurate, he wasn’t entirely surprised. It was a toss-up really, what he’d end up walking on; with the new doll he had picked up, the odds that he’d be walking in to the sweet smell of baked goods or the loud sounds of desperate moans were fifty-fifty.
After locking the front door, Sam would slip off his jacket and start to undo his tie as he made way to the kitchen area, where he’d expect to find his new trophy whore. Fixing him food, wearing next to nothing - if any at all - and hoping to greet him with a dumb warm smile.