Post by murr on Jan 8, 2010 22:59:54 GMT -5
Mail Jeevas
“I hitched a ride... until the coast...
To leave behind... all of my ghosts.
Searching for something, I couldn't find at home!”
“I hitched a ride... until the coast...
To leave behind... all of my ghosts.
Searching for something, I couldn't find at home!”
name[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Mail Jeevas (Matt)
age[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Nineteen
gender[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Male
grade[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Senior
social group[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Rough and Tough
orientation[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Asexual
strengths [/font] ,[/b] [/color]
- Video games
- Computers
- Hacking (as in getting into areas of computers he's not supposed to, although he does have a severe cough)
- Obeying orders
- Lying
weaknesses [/font] ,[/b] [/color]
- Meeting new people
- Smoking
- Dancing
- Talking to others
- Rejecting orders that are unreasonable
secrets[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
- Heavy smoker
- Narcissist
fears[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
- Being loved
- Dying
appearance[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Matt is most certainly not tall- about five foot five, even though he occupies all the vertical space he is entitled to, meaning he stands straight. He even wears knee-length, brown, leather platform boots to make him a near-even five foot seven. He has green eyes, which are really sort of pretty, but he hides them behind silver-framed goggles with orange lenses that are too tight, leaving circular bruises. He never complains about it, since the goggles allow him to stare at the computer and television for long hours without his eyes hurting.
His face is even further obscured by his jaw-length, reddish-brown hair, which rarely has shampoo or conditioner washing it, although he washes just enough so it doesn't appear greasy. He showers daily, though- even a gamer like him who doesn't care much about anything else gets disgusted about not showering enough.
He weighs about one hundred fourteen pounds, since smoking reduces one's appetite. Because of this, he tires easily, even going so far as to skip school because of it. Doesn't make a difference- he skips school regularly anyways, absorbed into his video games or tripping from some new drug he's "testing" for a "friend." Or both, although he's learned his lesson from the time he played Mario while using crack. He jokes about it inwardly.
With ignorance of fashion arises odd dressing styles, and Matt is no exception. He has a baggy, long-sleeved, black and red striped shirt (occasionally the red is replaced by white) that nearly falls off when he doesn't wear his vest. It's brown, velvety, with creamy, white fur lining the inside, several of the seams so it looks like he's a type of barrel, the zipper, and the pockets. He also wears blue jeans that look like they've been mauled by a kindergartner with scissors and repaired by a first-grader; his own work, actually.
Being that he's inside the majority of the time, his skin is pale, but he is aware how easily skin can become pasty, so he makes it his duty to go outside for a bit each day, since he "doesn't want pasty skin and all that shit." He doesn't say that aloud, of course- he's a bit of a shut-in. He also wears thick, black, rubber gloves that go up to his elbows, covering much of his shirt.
identifying feature[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
Wears goggles even during class
faceclaim[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
[b]Death Note[/b] ;; Mail Jeevas
sample rp[/font] [/color] ,[/b] [/color]
He groaned slightly, reclining in his chair, thumbs still hurting even a week after his video game spree. That had been the happiest moment of his life- nonstop video games twenty-four seven, constant coffee overload (chalk-full of sugar, to boot), and no interruptions. Pure. Bliss. He could've- well, never mind about that, it didn't matter much, and his thumbs hurt still. Wonder what that was about.
He got up heavily, grunting, taking off his omnipresent gloves and wincing- they were still purple. Of course, he'd accidentally slammed them both in his car door AND his sliding closet, so perhaps they were broken. Either way, he needed ice. And that meant he had to go to the store or something, since he'd been kicked out of his family's house for "testing out medicine." A.k.a. drugs like Ecstasy (easily his favorite), marijuana, pot, and cocaine (he'd settle for crack, even though he hates it). He couldn't demand them to buy him ice.
Crap. He hated the outdoors. Then again... It had been a while since he'd gone out in direct sunlight without an umbrella... But first, a shower was in order. Matt was a creature of habit: get up, go to school, go home, shower, and play video games. Weekends, he got up around four o'clock (early for him), took a shower, played video games, slept. Therefore, he washed, and since it was that rare time of week, he washed his hair.
Getting dressed again, he grabbed his car keys, making his way through the disaster zone that was his apartment. Which reminded him- he needed to pay the rent soon. He needed to sell drugs again, sooner or later, preferably the day before so he can annoy his other "friends"- like he had any at all. They were just the ones who supplied him with the drugs, which he sold/used, splitting the profit with them. He'd have to look at his computer again... That's where his biggest buyers were, their addresses and reliability rates from one to awesomesauce, his favorite term.
His car was his second pride, next to his computer. It was a red Mercedes, sleekly painted by himself, with nary a scratch nor a speck of dirt to be seen. The inside still smelled of new car, the leather had no rents, and the brakes were in perfect order even after three years, since he'd gotten it when he was sixteen. No wonder he loved it, petting the steering wheel lovingly as he slammed the door gently, shoving the keys into the ignition. The car revved for a bit, spluttered... and died. His face was one of grief, and he screamed, head leaning against the dysfunctional horn which didn't work either; he'd disabled it himself.
And so he was underneath the car, with grease dripping into his mouth, oil spattering his vest, two broken thumbs, and a monkey wrench that he had no idea how to use. On a Saturday, at ten o'clock.
Matt was super-fantastically-awesomely-wonderfully THRILLED about this. He really was. Not.
He got up heavily, grunting, taking off his omnipresent gloves and wincing- they were still purple. Of course, he'd accidentally slammed them both in his car door AND his sliding closet, so perhaps they were broken. Either way, he needed ice. And that meant he had to go to the store or something, since he'd been kicked out of his family's house for "testing out medicine." A.k.a. drugs like Ecstasy (easily his favorite), marijuana, pot, and cocaine (he'd settle for crack, even though he hates it). He couldn't demand them to buy him ice.
Crap. He hated the outdoors. Then again... It had been a while since he'd gone out in direct sunlight without an umbrella... But first, a shower was in order. Matt was a creature of habit: get up, go to school, go home, shower, and play video games. Weekends, he got up around four o'clock (early for him), took a shower, played video games, slept. Therefore, he washed, and since it was that rare time of week, he washed his hair.
Getting dressed again, he grabbed his car keys, making his way through the disaster zone that was his apartment. Which reminded him- he needed to pay the rent soon. He needed to sell drugs again, sooner or later, preferably the day before so he can annoy his other "friends"- like he had any at all. They were just the ones who supplied him with the drugs, which he sold/used, splitting the profit with them. He'd have to look at his computer again... That's where his biggest buyers were, their addresses and reliability rates from one to awesomesauce, his favorite term.
His car was his second pride, next to his computer. It was a red Mercedes, sleekly painted by himself, with nary a scratch nor a speck of dirt to be seen. The inside still smelled of new car, the leather had no rents, and the brakes were in perfect order even after three years, since he'd gotten it when he was sixteen. No wonder he loved it, petting the steering wheel lovingly as he slammed the door gently, shoving the keys into the ignition. The car revved for a bit, spluttered... and died. His face was one of grief, and he screamed, head leaning against the dysfunctional horn which didn't work either; he'd disabled it himself.
And so he was underneath the car, with grease dripping into his mouth, oil spattering his vest, two broken thumbs, and a monkey wrench that he had no idea how to use. On a Saturday, at ten o'clock.
Matt was super-fantastically-awesomely-wonderfully THRILLED about this. He really was. Not.