Post by aurorlia bennet on Oct 25, 2009 16:54:25 GMT -5
IMAGE;;
NAME;; Aurorlia Bennet
AGE;; 17
GRADE;; Senior
APPERANCE;;
Her hair goes in honey-brown ringlets, mahogany and gold, most of the time, seeing as she is too lazy to do anything else with it. If she straitens it, it can go to her waist, but, then again, she never usually does. It's just a matter of priorities. Bright, striking jade eyes that are highlighted by what some may call an overuse of eyeliner. But you definitely want to show off your best feature, and the eyes have it, because you can see into eyes, and they are what people write about. She's not to tall, not to short, about average you could say, around 5'6. However, she's very underweight. She is always moving, which leads to this a bit, but she rarely ever eats, and if she does, she doesn't skimp out, and have a salad. She'll get something big that she definitely can't tackle, and then pick at it for a while, and end up eating nothing. Or maybe it's just another way of self-mutilation, or something to that nature. You could define it as an eating disorder, but it's one of those things you can't really put your finger on. It's like she's a bird, all skinny, and bony, and her joints pop out in some places. It's not that she's grotesquely anorexic; there's just something wit her body weight that you can immediately tell just isn't right. It all depends on your point of view; is the glass half empty, or half full? She dressed in beachy clothes, and thrift stores tend to be her shop of choice, or trade. It's cheaper, and looks like designer crap; already worn in. Unless she scrounges together enough money, which wouldn't take a lot of an effort seeing as her dad is some fancy scientist. But she'd rather not advertise facts like that. Because she it going to make a name for herself, and she will not let her depressed family do it for her.
PERSONALITY;;
As if you couldn’t already tell, I’m a bit facetious. But they also call me mysterious. Honey, you wouldn't understand. We bat our eyes, and lick our lips, and the secrets dance behind our eyes. Or, maybe just mine. But, you thirst for me, for the hidden cipher you would never know. And it's the mystery that keeps you here, that makes you want me. Apethatic, in a word.
Although, maybe you would call it mystery, for my mask is unbroken. Any thoughts stay clearly in the lines. And I bite my tongue to hide it. You would not understand me, for it seems I never give away enough. So take that, you see. It's all for one, and none for you. But so provocitive, start the fights, start the wars. Let's start a fight. Swing the hook, and let loose your anger. As if gossip wasn't enough, I'm here to back it up, fan the flames, so to speak. You better keep a strong hold on that murderous thing called your tongue. Slander is the best tinder for a fight. I am most definitely not bitter. Not in the least. I just get jealous easily, and happen to hold grudges too long. Anyone could fall to the same problems, I suspect. It's a matter of perspective on whether or not it would tick you off. But let's just say that I'm not bitter. Conceited, and myself, but a little self-infatuation never hurt anyone. Pretty is as pretty does, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, blah, blah, blah. No. Don't go there. For me, to be pretty, you must think pretty. And we all have our own aspect of that. Believe me, I'm a beauty. Unrivaled, really. So stick that in your juice box and SUCK IT! But I'm pensive, and unlike the other idiots, I think. Yea, I'm rational, believe it or not. And unlike others, I have a fear of pain, not death. If you ask me, it makes much more sense, for death is simple, it's a second, the actual action. But pain, that's eternal. And as for ambitions, I want to be known. The somebody famous, the reason to stare. But my entirely secret want? Love. Yes, behind that facade and harsh exterior, I'm a sucker for romance and a a pair of arms to sleep in at night.
HISTORY;;
It all started way, back, when. Like, sixteen years ago, probably. I was born in a normal sort of hospital, somewhere frigid and terribly cold. In fact, there was a blizzard outside, that angry snow storm that never seems to cease. The snow beat against the windows, all inflamed, and pissed. But I was a baby; I didn't give a shit that it was snowing. All I knew was something big, brilliant, and confusing was happening. And yea, my birth, my life is a great astronomical event, because I'm something big. And humble beginnings can always spring to huge, amazing processes. And when I'm a star, and the world looks back at my roots, my origin, they will gasp, and I will tear up as I recall how hard those first few years were, and I'll have to take a moment for a breath during my big prime-time interview. And in my hundreds of biographies (authorized and not) they will all say what a huge, and terrible thing it was, to be born in such a nobody town, in such a nobody place, in such a nobody situation. And that's why I'll be America's new favorite; because they will think they can all do it (be as great as me) but they really can't.
But to understand all this, you have to go back a bit.
My parents were high school sweethearts from some little farm town. But, my father was a genius, and studying to be something great, studying to go somewhere amazing. And my mom was just that; a housewife. She had no goals, no ambitions, no inspiration. I doubt she even had a personality. My favorite theory when I was younger was that she was really only a robot, you know, not capable of love, or self-respect, or breathing. But she was my mom, so I had to love her. Even if I acted out more than I should have later on, but that was really all her fault to begin with, because you should never try to strap someone down with your own silly beliefs and idiotic tenancies. But, anyway, back to the story. So, my dad graduated some great college, or a state college, or something, but he got some ostentatious, flashy degree, and dragged my poor mother out to Greenland. Yea. The place that sounds amazing, but, you know what they say, they screwed up the names with Iceland and Greenland, because Green;and is really all ice, and Iceland is really all green. I think I remember watching something on National Geographic how they did that so more people would move to Greenland, like it was really a real estate gimmick. I think that's a little sad, that you couldn't sell enough land and you had to totally mess up the name of a whole country to sell away the acreage. Anyway, yea, my dad would go out and work in some stuffy lab all day, and then, after work, hop on a snow mobile and go hunt seals with the natives, kind of like how suburb dads hit the bars. So yea, blubber for dinner. Delicious. Somehow, among all this monotony and horrid living, I was conceived! Yay! Although, I'd really not like to think how such situations come about.
And there we are, back to that icky hospital, with, like, three rooms, where I was born. Nothing too spectacular there.
And yes, I grew up with the seals and the natives. And it. was. fucking. cold. Never again. I will never move away from the beach, and the sun, and a temperature above 40 Fahrenheit. But, by the time I was ten, my mother had thrown enough utensils down at dinner, and I had given them enough tantrums to move here. Mainly here, Newport, because my dad got a job at an observatory. But when I really take the time to think, I feel bad for my old man, the sucker. He never seemed the same after moving away from the tundra-frozen wasteland-place. I think he actually looked forward to risking his neck with harpoons on inch thin ice, talking in a tongue he didn't even really understand. Now he just goes out with the guys every night to your average bar, does the average crap. Although, he comes home a little later then you'd expect, and he always goes straight to bed, or to read, or write his newest thesis. And, when I really sit and think about it, I almost regret doing that to him, taking him from the place he, in a weird way, loved. But then I go outside and feel the sun on my arms, or open the fridge and think how cold that even is, and I loose every little bit of pity I ever felt for him. It's like, God, get over it, and live your fucking life dude.I Must Be Dreaming - The Maine
NAME;; Aurorlia Bennet
AGE;; 17
GRADE;; Senior
APPERANCE;;
Her hair goes in honey-brown ringlets, mahogany and gold, most of the time, seeing as she is too lazy to do anything else with it. If she straitens it, it can go to her waist, but, then again, she never usually does. It's just a matter of priorities. Bright, striking jade eyes that are highlighted by what some may call an overuse of eyeliner. But you definitely want to show off your best feature, and the eyes have it, because you can see into eyes, and they are what people write about. She's not to tall, not to short, about average you could say, around 5'6. However, she's very underweight. She is always moving, which leads to this a bit, but she rarely ever eats, and if she does, she doesn't skimp out, and have a salad. She'll get something big that she definitely can't tackle, and then pick at it for a while, and end up eating nothing. Or maybe it's just another way of self-mutilation, or something to that nature. You could define it as an eating disorder, but it's one of those things you can't really put your finger on. It's like she's a bird, all skinny, and bony, and her joints pop out in some places. It's not that she's grotesquely anorexic; there's just something wit her body weight that you can immediately tell just isn't right. It all depends on your point of view; is the glass half empty, or half full? She dressed in beachy clothes, and thrift stores tend to be her shop of choice, or trade. It's cheaper, and looks like designer crap; already worn in. Unless she scrounges together enough money, which wouldn't take a lot of an effort seeing as her dad is some fancy scientist. But she'd rather not advertise facts like that. Because she it going to make a name for herself, and she will not let her depressed family do it for her.
PERSONALITY;;
As if you couldn’t already tell, I’m a bit facetious. But they also call me mysterious. Honey, you wouldn't understand. We bat our eyes, and lick our lips, and the secrets dance behind our eyes. Or, maybe just mine. But, you thirst for me, for the hidden cipher you would never know. And it's the mystery that keeps you here, that makes you want me. Apethatic, in a word.
Although, maybe you would call it mystery, for my mask is unbroken. Any thoughts stay clearly in the lines. And I bite my tongue to hide it. You would not understand me, for it seems I never give away enough. So take that, you see. It's all for one, and none for you. But so provocitive, start the fights, start the wars. Let's start a fight. Swing the hook, and let loose your anger. As if gossip wasn't enough, I'm here to back it up, fan the flames, so to speak. You better keep a strong hold on that murderous thing called your tongue. Slander is the best tinder for a fight. I am most definitely not bitter. Not in the least. I just get jealous easily, and happen to hold grudges too long. Anyone could fall to the same problems, I suspect. It's a matter of perspective on whether or not it would tick you off. But let's just say that I'm not bitter. Conceited, and myself, but a little self-infatuation never hurt anyone. Pretty is as pretty does, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, blah, blah, blah. No. Don't go there. For me, to be pretty, you must think pretty. And we all have our own aspect of that. Believe me, I'm a beauty. Unrivaled, really. So stick that in your juice box and SUCK IT! But I'm pensive, and unlike the other idiots, I think. Yea, I'm rational, believe it or not. And unlike others, I have a fear of pain, not death. If you ask me, it makes much more sense, for death is simple, it's a second, the actual action. But pain, that's eternal. And as for ambitions, I want to be known. The somebody famous, the reason to stare. But my entirely secret want? Love. Yes, behind that facade and harsh exterior, I'm a sucker for romance and a a pair of arms to sleep in at night.
HISTORY;;
It all started way, back, when. Like, sixteen years ago, probably. I was born in a normal sort of hospital, somewhere frigid and terribly cold. In fact, there was a blizzard outside, that angry snow storm that never seems to cease. The snow beat against the windows, all inflamed, and pissed. But I was a baby; I didn't give a shit that it was snowing. All I knew was something big, brilliant, and confusing was happening. And yea, my birth, my life is a great astronomical event, because I'm something big. And humble beginnings can always spring to huge, amazing processes. And when I'm a star, and the world looks back at my roots, my origin, they will gasp, and I will tear up as I recall how hard those first few years were, and I'll have to take a moment for a breath during my big prime-time interview. And in my hundreds of biographies (authorized and not) they will all say what a huge, and terrible thing it was, to be born in such a nobody town, in such a nobody place, in such a nobody situation. And that's why I'll be America's new favorite; because they will think they can all do it (be as great as me) but they really can't.
But to understand all this, you have to go back a bit.
My parents were high school sweethearts from some little farm town. But, my father was a genius, and studying to be something great, studying to go somewhere amazing. And my mom was just that; a housewife. She had no goals, no ambitions, no inspiration. I doubt she even had a personality. My favorite theory when I was younger was that she was really only a robot, you know, not capable of love, or self-respect, or breathing. But she was my mom, so I had to love her. Even if I acted out more than I should have later on, but that was really all her fault to begin with, because you should never try to strap someone down with your own silly beliefs and idiotic tenancies. But, anyway, back to the story. So, my dad graduated some great college, or a state college, or something, but he got some ostentatious, flashy degree, and dragged my poor mother out to Greenland. Yea. The place that sounds amazing, but, you know what they say, they screwed up the names with Iceland and Greenland, because Green;and is really all ice, and Iceland is really all green. I think I remember watching something on National Geographic how they did that so more people would move to Greenland, like it was really a real estate gimmick. I think that's a little sad, that you couldn't sell enough land and you had to totally mess up the name of a whole country to sell away the acreage. Anyway, yea, my dad would go out and work in some stuffy lab all day, and then, after work, hop on a snow mobile and go hunt seals with the natives, kind of like how suburb dads hit the bars. So yea, blubber for dinner. Delicious. Somehow, among all this monotony and horrid living, I was conceived! Yay! Although, I'd really not like to think how such situations come about.
And there we are, back to that icky hospital, with, like, three rooms, where I was born. Nothing too spectacular there.
And yes, I grew up with the seals and the natives. And it. was. fucking. cold. Never again. I will never move away from the beach, and the sun, and a temperature above 40 Fahrenheit. But, by the time I was ten, my mother had thrown enough utensils down at dinner, and I had given them enough tantrums to move here. Mainly here, Newport, because my dad got a job at an observatory. But when I really take the time to think, I feel bad for my old man, the sucker. He never seemed the same after moving away from the tundra-frozen wasteland-place. I think he actually looked forward to risking his neck with harpoons on inch thin ice, talking in a tongue he didn't even really understand. Now he just goes out with the guys every night to your average bar, does the average crap. Although, he comes home a little later then you'd expect, and he always goes straight to bed, or to read, or write his newest thesis. And, when I really sit and think about it, I almost regret doing that to him, taking him from the place he, in a weird way, loved. But then I go outside and feel the sun on my arms, or open the fridge and think how cold that even is, and I loose every little bit of pity I ever felt for him. It's like, God, get over it, and live your fucking life dude.I Must Be Dreaming - The Maine
