Post by perry on Jan 18, 2010 9:18:51 GMT -5
PERRY JULIAN AMBROSE
[/font]" DID YOU EXPECT IT ALL TO STOP AT THE WAVE OF YOUR HAND? "[/font]
[/center]FULL NAME: perry julian ambrose.[/blockquote]
AGE: seventeen.
MEMBER GROUP: wack jobs.
GRADE: junior.
BIRTH PLACE: st. claire, michigan.
RELIGION: agnostic.
SEXUALITY: heterosexual.
PLAYBY: jordan witzigreuter.
AND IF YOU SWEAR THAT
[/font]" THERE'S NO TRUTH AND WHO CARES, WHY DO YOU SAY IT LIKE YOU'RE RIGHT? "[/font][/center]
uhm. hi. i'm perry. you can call me anything - ambrose, whatever you want - just don't be offended if i don't realize you're talking to me right away. actually...don't be offended if you call me perry and i don't realize you're talking to me. i...seem to do that quite a bit. i've been seventeen since october second. it's exactly like being sixteen. or thirteen, for that matter. i'm not expecting eighteen, twenty, or twenty-five to be much different. is that weird? ...it doesn't matter. i'm supposing you want to know why i'm here? most people do. i don't care. ...no. that's why i'm here. apparently the fact that i couldn't possibly care less about people or relationships is enough to stamp 'schizoid' on my forehead and ship me off to be 'cured'. ...actually, i'm not as upset about being here as i sounded. it's no worse to me than being back at home at a regular high school. at least they've given up on the medication. i was diagnosed a couple of years ago – i was fifteen, i think – and apparently it wasn't acceptable to let me continue my life as i had previously been doing. no. they said that schizoid people can regress to schizophrenia. so they gave me schizophrenic medication. go figure. to be fair, it's commonly used on schizoids too, but…still. i thank fucking god that that's over; for a year, i was an utterly emotionless droid, and would have been unable to make friends even if i had wanted to. not to mention the nightmares. i can still remember some of them. fucking scariest things in the world – just as vivid as anything in front of me right now. …anyway. i'm…introverted. i'm quiet, and i'm…more interested in myself…rather than other people. i like thinking, i'm sort of philosophical, i guess? and people…just don’t appeal to me? or relationships, romantic or otherwise. i don’t like speaking. communicating in general, really. actually, i dislike it. i honestly don't enjoy a lot. if i were asked right now what i was passionate about, i would have no answer. then again, i don't…hate…a lot of things, either. i dislike things, but i can’t…really think of anything i particularly hate. i've been called blunt. i think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, seeing as i already try to talk as little as possible. then again, i try to say things in fewer words than the average person. considering that, i'll take blunt. i'm…narcissistic. kind of. not so much in a…self-loving…way. to avoid confusion, i'm kind of the only thing i care about. i'm an outcast; i'm kind of all i have, you know? …sorry. no, of course you don’t. nevermind. i…see myself as…above others? not so much in a 'i'm way fucking better than you' way, just…on a different plane. like, in geometry. if society and all people are 'plane a' and make up an infinite line, i’m on this completely different plane. 'plane c'. and – ignore the fact that i am a single point and would not even make up a line, let alone a plane – the two lines, line me, and line everybody else, are skew. we just don’t intersect. end of it. …does that make sense at all? …i didn't expect it to. that's…just how i see it. to be more general, i'm in my own world. but that’s sort of not…correct… anyway…as for hobbies, i think i mentioned i'm not interested in much. i read…quite a bit, mostly science fiction, though i read a good deal of satire, too. heller-esque stuff, cynical, sarcastic, you know? i could list off some more names, but you may not know of them – they're kind of obscure. kafka isn't, i suppose, but… i have a thing for math. i'm probably not that good or unusual or anything, but it's interesting. i don’t enjoy things that can be debated endlessly – if the answer isn't able to be reached, it probably doesn't matter to me, you know? arts and all of that, sans some literature and instrumental music, therefore aren’t too entertaining for me. my history has been fairly – average? like i know what average is. my parents divorced when i was…like, two. something like that. i've lived with my mom forever. always in this small-ish city in wisconsin, almost in canada. i think her family's from somewhere else, but…i can't remember ever communicating with them, or really talking about them. aside from the fact that we weren’t all that close – and i didn’t mind – we were well enough off. almost a middle middle class, kind of. i went to a public school, and kept to myself. i'm not sure at what age i seriously started to realize i didn't care whether or not people talked to me, but it was probably…early teens? probably twelve-thirteen-ish? i was sent here a couple years later, maybe a year after being diagnosed. i was always…imaginative, logical. i liked thinking. …i was smart? kind of. i don’t know. i was good at school. i probably could've gotten into a decent college. that's irrational now, obviously.
WHY ARE YOU SCARED TO
[/font]" DREAM OF GOD WHEN IT'S SALVATION THAT YOU WANT? "[/font][/center]
NAME: halle.
AGE: fifteen.
EXPERIENCE: about three years.
TIME ZONE: central.
OTHER CHARACTERS: none.
Taking a slight breath in a quick intake of air, Zeke reached to wrap the grey jacket more securely around him. Considering how near fall was approaching to being winter, the weather wasn’t too cold to prevent him from walking outside for awhile with a relatively thin jacket. He had recognized that this might be one of the last chances until spring that he could comfortably sketch or paint outside, and decided he might as well go for it. With an idea he had been holding on to in his mind for a painting and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, he was now walking down the sidewalk of a quiet street. The occasional car would pass by as he made his way toward the graveyard, causing him glance up distractedly before continuing down the street.
Stepping past the gates of the cemetery, he noticed at a distance that it wasn’t the typical weather he would have expected in a graveyard. It sounded irrational now that he thought about it, but there was – in his mind, at least – a kind of stereotype cemeteries had. This one, though, covered in the vivid hues of fallen leaves, combined with the crisp autumn weather, was nonconforming to this idea. In the front, which he was just now passing, there were rows of larger marble tomb-like figures. Farther, he could see, were the characteristic headstones. Wandering - careful to remain a slight distance away from the graves, as if afraid of defiling the deceased’s residence - farther to the back of the cemetery, he paused near a fence and a cluster of graves shaded by a presumably juvenile tree. Upon noticing the dates on an otherwise unremarkable headstone, he shuddered slightly, before continuing on his way. He hadn’t particularly wanted to be reminded that people younger than him did, in fact, die. He could think of very few people that did. Want to be reminded, that is.
Only when he had entered the deeper part of the yard did he realize how…wrong, really, it felt to be coming in here for the purpose of painting. These headstones were obviously old - small and jagged; they cast haggard shadows behind them, which, contrasted with the bright, almost cheerful weather, seemed almost ironic in his mind. In an offhand thought, he wondered what the difference was between these graves and the tombs near the front of the graveyard. Of course, the answer was obvious. These people had died probably a hundred years ago, and probably had few close living relatives that still remembered, or cared about, them. He bit his lip, not wanting to dwell on where he might be a hundred and fifty years from now, and his place, if still there, in people’s minds.
With this in mind, he decided it couldn’t hurt to start the painting. Settling himself down on the cold grass, turned mostly towards the fence, he removed the bag from his shoulder and placed it beside him. He was a few yards away from the graves themselves, and he was no longer planning for them to be of even secondary focus in the image. Within half an hour, after taking a pad of paper from the bag, he had begun the sketch. It was focused off past the edge of the cemetery, with the fence obscuring the view of autumn-esque trees. Near the edge, two hazy tombstones were showing, and would later hopefully be contrasting the clear, bright weather he had seen when he had entered the cemetery. By the time the rough sketch was finished, he realized it would be getting dark too soon to begin painting.
After placing the sketch into a folder, which was slipped back into the bag, Zeke stood up. He felt compelled, almost, to apologize for disturbing the silence of this part of the cemetery. Shivering, he realized that it was, in fact, getting cooler, and started back to the entrance with only a quick glance at the sinking sun. Letting out a quiet sigh as he walked, he was soon lost in various thoughts. For one thing, Lena was probably not happy with him at the moment, as he hadn’t been home much today, though he knew she would be cheerful when he did get back to the apartment. That was one of the good things about puppies: they acted like they were completely happy to see you each time you came back. It was comforting, if nothing else. He was nearing the entrance now, and stepped still closer to the fence than the graves, thanking himself for remembering to grab a jacket when he had left.
Stepping past the gates of the cemetery, he noticed at a distance that it wasn’t the typical weather he would have expected in a graveyard. It sounded irrational now that he thought about it, but there was – in his mind, at least – a kind of stereotype cemeteries had. This one, though, covered in the vivid hues of fallen leaves, combined with the crisp autumn weather, was nonconforming to this idea. In the front, which he was just now passing, there were rows of larger marble tomb-like figures. Farther, he could see, were the characteristic headstones. Wandering - careful to remain a slight distance away from the graves, as if afraid of defiling the deceased’s residence - farther to the back of the cemetery, he paused near a fence and a cluster of graves shaded by a presumably juvenile tree. Upon noticing the dates on an otherwise unremarkable headstone, he shuddered slightly, before continuing on his way. He hadn’t particularly wanted to be reminded that people younger than him did, in fact, die. He could think of very few people that did. Want to be reminded, that is.
Only when he had entered the deeper part of the yard did he realize how…wrong, really, it felt to be coming in here for the purpose of painting. These headstones were obviously old - small and jagged; they cast haggard shadows behind them, which, contrasted with the bright, almost cheerful weather, seemed almost ironic in his mind. In an offhand thought, he wondered what the difference was between these graves and the tombs near the front of the graveyard. Of course, the answer was obvious. These people had died probably a hundred years ago, and probably had few close living relatives that still remembered, or cared about, them. He bit his lip, not wanting to dwell on where he might be a hundred and fifty years from now, and his place, if still there, in people’s minds.
With this in mind, he decided it couldn’t hurt to start the painting. Settling himself down on the cold grass, turned mostly towards the fence, he removed the bag from his shoulder and placed it beside him. He was a few yards away from the graves themselves, and he was no longer planning for them to be of even secondary focus in the image. Within half an hour, after taking a pad of paper from the bag, he had begun the sketch. It was focused off past the edge of the cemetery, with the fence obscuring the view of autumn-esque trees. Near the edge, two hazy tombstones were showing, and would later hopefully be contrasting the clear, bright weather he had seen when he had entered the cemetery. By the time the rough sketch was finished, he realized it would be getting dark too soon to begin painting.
After placing the sketch into a folder, which was slipped back into the bag, Zeke stood up. He felt compelled, almost, to apologize for disturbing the silence of this part of the cemetery. Shivering, he realized that it was, in fact, getting cooler, and started back to the entrance with only a quick glance at the sinking sun. Letting out a quiet sigh as he walked, he was soon lost in various thoughts. For one thing, Lena was probably not happy with him at the moment, as he hadn’t been home much today, though he knew she would be cheerful when he did get back to the apartment. That was one of the good things about puppies: they acted like they were completely happy to see you each time you came back. It was comforting, if nothing else. He was nearing the entrance now, and stepped still closer to the fence than the graves, thanking himself for remembering to grab a jacket when he had left.
