Post by Jacqueline Oliver on Apr 12, 2009 19:56:40 GMT -5
And They Tell Me I'm Not Their Idea Of Normal
but this is just how i've always been
but this is just how i've always been
Name: Jacqueline Oliver.
Nicknames: Jackie O.
Age: 20.
Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.
And I Hate My Reflection In The Mirror
because it shows me everything i'm not[/center][/size][/color]
Pb Claim: Keira Knightley.
Physical Characteristics: Jacqueline is not your standard, classic American beauty, regardless of her childhood nickname, Jackie O. She has a thinner frame than most, but lacks muscle rendering any description of her appearance as “fragile”. She has thin, dark brown hair that touches the arch of her back with thick bangs lying on her forehead. Her bangs are usually brushed to the side in haste, but otherwise, her hairstyle is tamed and straight. Rather than a heart shaped face, she has a square, prominent jaw that contrasts with a slim neck and delicate shoulders. She has small, dark brown eyes framed with thick, but managed, archless eyebrows. Her nose is short and narrow, her mouth long and drawn out with full lips virtually without a cupid’s bow. Jacqueline tends to dress in cotton fabric with clean cut lines, but despises earth tones, sticking to plums, navy blues, creams, or black, and dons vintage, strictly gold, accessories; all of which change her simple wardrobe into a mixture of old and modern fashion.
And Money Is Supposed To Make Me Happy
so all i do is about the greenbacks
so all i do is about the greenbacks
Member Group: Visitor.
Job Position: Student.
Schooling: Sophomore in College – majoring in Creative Writing.
Wealth Status: Upper Middle Class.
And I Keep Wishing On The Same Stars
but loyalty doesn't make dreams come true
but loyalty doesn't make dreams come true
Dreams:(at least 2)
Fears:(at least 2)
Secrets:(at least 1)
Likes:(at least 5)
Dislikes:(at least 5)
Three Best Personality Traits:
- Extremely creative.
- Well spoken.
- Daring, willing to go against the social norm.
Three Worst Personality Traits:
- Snobbish.
- Doesn’t perform well under pressure.
- Tends to run away from any large problem she faces.
And All This Shit Could Fill A Novel
because life's a crazy game
because life's a crazy game
Parents: Julianne Emile, 47, painter. Robert Oliver, 49, psychiatrist. Divorced.
Siblings: Cecilia Oliver, 23, film maker.
History: A former avant-garde artist and part time model of the Lower East Side and a faux-philosopher, who spent the majority in the Village pontificating the beatnik lifestyle in his youth, met and instantly fell in love amidst the smoke and neon lights of New York’s Underground Scene. Years later, Robert and Julianne were wed in Times Square and soon after, their first daughter, Cecilia, was born. Both quickly agreed to pursue a cleaner, more wholesome life, as they were thrown into adulthood with the responsibility of caring for a child.
Born and bred in Oakwood, Robert Oliver was apart of one of the generations that originally resided in the town. He proposed a move to rural Indiana, back to his hometown to properly raise a family with everything they wanted, including a white picket fence. Abandoning their “vive la vie bohème!” motto, they adopted jobs suitable for their American Dream; Robert became a psychiatrist from his intense years of schooling in his youth while Julianne stayed home to tend to three year old Cecilia. Years passed and with the birth of Jacqueline, Julianne felt the stifling title of housewife “crush her inspiration and artistic nature” to the point where the balance of their marriage suffered, which ultimately ended in a divorce. Julianne chose to take Cecilia to back to Manhattan to pursue a life of art while Robert chose to keep Jacqueline in Oakwood.
While young Jacqueline was brought up in Oakwood, she felt an underlying desire to see the city that had garnered the love of her distant mother and sister. She separated herself from others during childhood to pursue the quickest route to achieving her dreams to rekindle their broken relationship within the city they idolized. Jacqueline wanted bigger and better things in bigger and better places, scoffing at any small town dream of having a family or working on a farm. From the day she entered elementary school, she gained a reputation for dressing “oddly” or in fashion conscious clothing current with trends, desperately trying to lose her mid-western accent, and paying attention international news and politics. Children mockingly gave her the nickname “Jackie O”, after the former first lady Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, and it stuck throughout her years in Oakwood.
After graduation, she moved to New York to attend New York University, majoring in Journalism to leave the little town of Oakwood forever. Two years later, she returned, but nothing has seemed to have changed, except her major...
And I Try To Sit In The Shadows
so no one can see my true face
so no one can see my true face
Name: You can just call me Jacqueline!
Rp Experience: Seven years, I believe.
Where did you find us?: An ad from one of the forums I stumbled upon.
Rp Sample:
Her parched, triangle shaped lips turned up at the sun's blistering rays that beat down onto her harsh, but strangely compelling face. It had been days since--- , Chills crawled up her spine that made her take a shallow breath to ease her rattled nerves. Blocking the sunlight with her hand, she became aware of the trembling that erupted from the palms of her hands to the very tip of her fingers. Disgusted by her weakness, she balled her hands into tight fists, mouth pursed into a defiant sneer. No, she wouldn't break down, not now. She bit her teeth into her bottom lip and crouched down onto the flattened grass, but kept her stance, ready to sprint. Her back was arched, aching and begging for a more ease position, but none came; her fingers grazed the burning, weathered pavement to somehow channel the nervousness that made her heartbeat flutter with each desperate and pained breath; her feet lay perched on her tiptoes like an exotic bird from the east.
The predator, poised to rip apart anything that came her way, was greeted with the deafening sound of mankind's own destruction. It was composed of rare screams and gunshots, police sirens, yelling, explosions, rubber tires screeching on the streets and then, the collision of iron against iron. This symphony was orchestrated by us, with our own hands, for Virus 21 made no noise. Droplets of sweat rolled down the side of her face; this heat had almost lost her sanity hours ago, but now, it promised to take more than that. She slid her tongue over her cracked lips that sent the taste copper and salt, her blood, a taste that ripped through her senses. Her lips stung and her eyes watered with pain, but it was a needed relief from the flaking, bleeding, raw skin exposed to the elements.
With a deep breath in, she pushed off the ground with her toes and dashed wildly to the double doors that lay in front of her. She flung the doors open and almost tumbled inside to this oasis. The temperature dropped 20 degrees or so it felt against her cooked skin as she retreated into the shaded convenient store. The alien sound of the bells chiming against the door filled the newly-found reservoir. Suddenly, as if the forgotten weight of her body returned in one moment, she collapsed with sheer bliss into a heap on the cold, tiled floor. This was either a gift from whatever benevolent divine being that ruled the universe or she was the luckiest person left on earth. The odds seemed to favor the latter. Peering around the store with cautious eyes, a mischievous smile spread across her face brightly as she saw that the contents of the store hadn't been looted. A quivering, hopeful tone filled her throat as she murmured to herself, "Y…yes."
A sick noise made her blood run cold and her heartbeat come to a pained stop. The bell that dangled freely above the doors had chimed, mocking her euphoric state.
The beautiful and fragile hope dropped from her face and disgust splattered across her weathered features as its shoddy replacement. Someone... someone was in here. Don't have a gun... don’t have a gun... She thought, the one line running through her mind over and over as she lay frozen. Pausing, she heard no signs that this intruder knew that she was here, but this brought no relief. She clumsily rolled behind one of the aisles and reached a bony hand into her hoodie, pulling out a long, sharp, kitchen knife. The blade was stainless steel and saw little use in her kitchen, clean and unused. She pleaded that it would stay that way. She held her breath to stop the heavy breathing that seemed to be heard throughout the store and to slow the staccato heartbeat that pounded against her chest like a frenzied, caged prisoner. Hearing the weary footsteps approach from the aisle behind her, courage and adrenaline pumped through her veins and the furious need to survive throbbed through her mind as she spun around and in a utterly vicious slur of words that was spat out in mere seconds, she said, pointing the knife at her prey, "Don't you fucking move."
Viola Acerbi knew one thing and one thing only. No one was going to stop her.
The predator, poised to rip apart anything that came her way, was greeted with the deafening sound of mankind's own destruction. It was composed of rare screams and gunshots, police sirens, yelling, explosions, rubber tires screeching on the streets and then, the collision of iron against iron. This symphony was orchestrated by us, with our own hands, for Virus 21 made no noise. Droplets of sweat rolled down the side of her face; this heat had almost lost her sanity hours ago, but now, it promised to take more than that. She slid her tongue over her cracked lips that sent the taste copper and salt, her blood, a taste that ripped through her senses. Her lips stung and her eyes watered with pain, but it was a needed relief from the flaking, bleeding, raw skin exposed to the elements.
With a deep breath in, she pushed off the ground with her toes and dashed wildly to the double doors that lay in front of her. She flung the doors open and almost tumbled inside to this oasis. The temperature dropped 20 degrees or so it felt against her cooked skin as she retreated into the shaded convenient store. The alien sound of the bells chiming against the door filled the newly-found reservoir. Suddenly, as if the forgotten weight of her body returned in one moment, she collapsed with sheer bliss into a heap on the cold, tiled floor. This was either a gift from whatever benevolent divine being that ruled the universe or she was the luckiest person left on earth. The odds seemed to favor the latter. Peering around the store with cautious eyes, a mischievous smile spread across her face brightly as she saw that the contents of the store hadn't been looted. A quivering, hopeful tone filled her throat as she murmured to herself, "Y…yes."
A sick noise made her blood run cold and her heartbeat come to a pained stop. The bell that dangled freely above the doors had chimed, mocking her euphoric state.
The beautiful and fragile hope dropped from her face and disgust splattered across her weathered features as its shoddy replacement. Someone... someone was in here. Don't have a gun... don’t have a gun... She thought, the one line running through her mind over and over as she lay frozen. Pausing, she heard no signs that this intruder knew that she was here, but this brought no relief. She clumsily rolled behind one of the aisles and reached a bony hand into her hoodie, pulling out a long, sharp, kitchen knife. The blade was stainless steel and saw little use in her kitchen, clean and unused. She pleaded that it would stay that way. She held her breath to stop the heavy breathing that seemed to be heard throughout the store and to slow the staccato heartbeat that pounded against her chest like a frenzied, caged prisoner. Hearing the weary footsteps approach from the aisle behind her, courage and adrenaline pumped through her veins and the furious need to survive throbbed through her mind as she spun around and in a utterly vicious slur of words that was spat out in mere seconds, she said, pointing the knife at her prey, "Don't you fucking move."
Viola Acerbi knew one thing and one thing only. No one was going to stop her.
And If You've Read The Rules
you know what goes here:
you know what goes here:
