Laura Bantle flails her hands uncontrollably around my bedroom. Laura Bantle cries when her flailing limbs slam themselves down on a huge wooden trunk with metal peices protruding off of it. Emily, flipping ever-so-quickly into "i love LB she CANT die!" mode, runs to the bathroom to retrieve a first aid kit that she just made up into exsistance,
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By the way, way to make yourself look good. Your forgot the part where you fall flat on your face on the same ice every morning, don't learn, and always cry about it.
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SHUTUP LAURA.
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