Post by sophia on May 15, 2010 16:41:00 GMT -5
SOPHIA ISOLDE LOVE
HAI THERE, I’M SOPHIA ISOLDE LOVE. BUT MOST PEOPLE CALL ME SOPHIA, SOPH, ISSY, LOVE. I’LL PROBABLY ANSWER TO ANYTHING THOUGH TO BE HONEST. FEBRUARY 14TH, 1991IS A PRETTY BIG DAY FOR ME SINCE IT WAS WHEN I WAS BORN; GETTING GIFTS IS ALWAYS A PLUS THOUGH. THIS MEANS I’M NINTEEN YEARS OLD, BUT LET’S NOT TALK ABOUT HOW OLD I’M GETTING. I WAS BORN IN WASHINGTON D.C, IT’S AN OKAY PLACE BUT NOTHING COMPARED TO WHERE I AM NOW CAMPTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA. I DON’T MEAN TO BRAG BUT MY TALENT IS PRETTY DAMN AWESOME, YOU’D THINK SO TOO IF YOU WERE DANCER. IT’S NO SECRET THAT I LIKE GIRLS AND BOYS. APPERENTLY PEOPLE SEEM TO THINK I LOOK LIKE LAURA VANDERVOORT BUT I THINK THEY'RE CRAZY.
NOW YOU KNOW A LITTLE ABOUT MY CHARACTER I’M GOING TO LET YOU KNOW A BIT ABOUT ME, FRANKIE. I’M SURE YOU’VE HEARD OF ME BEFORE RIGHT? I’M SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD BUT IT’S NOT LIKE THAT’S IMPORTANT. IF YOU’RE INTERESTED MY OTHER CHARACTERS ON HERE ARE NONEXISTENT, CHECK THEM OUT. I’VE BEEN ROLEPLAYING FOR TOO MANY YEARS, I CONSIDER MYSELF A PRO BY NOW. IF YOU FEEL THE NEED TO CONTACT ME ABOUT ANYTHING THAT HIT ME UP AT THAT MINI-PROFILE.
Ah, the outdoors. To be honest, Mister Anderson had never been the biggest outdoorsman. He didn't mind walking around outside, and found it comforting at times. Parks, on the other hand, made him nervous. Very nervous. Especially in states with bad reps. Sorry New Jersey. Most parks anywhere were dangerous at night. But very few parks were dangerous all the time. Who knew how many gangs could be roaming through the trees like packs of rabid wolves? But mostly because of the man he was, he could very easily hide and mask his odd fear of the trees, so much so that he even convinced himself that he wasn't the slightest bit nervous out there.
Other people were walking. Old ladies, guys with roller blades, children skipping around with balloons while their parents watched them with the look that Mister Anderson would have had if he wasn't so good at keeping everything inside and then some. Everything was green, since it was spring, and the winter had been crazy. It was pretty, though almost blinding, then bordered on irritating. Fucking green everywhere. And the humidity was beginning to get to him.
Shorts did not exist. And if they did, obviously something was wrong with his head. Jeans, skinny, flared, straight-leg, it didn't matter. They had to reach his ankles and beyond. But a pair of particularly tight jeans and even a thin plaid shirt stood useless against the heat. Small beads of sweat began to collect along his forehead, still hidden, but there. He needed to sit. It had probably been hours since he'd been off of his feet, since time obviously couldn't exist in a place that was so green and outside. There were no clocks. There was no time.
An elderly woman a few yards ahead of him turned her head slightly to look at something, he assumed. He also assumed that it was a bench, even though the woman didn't sit, and old ladies usually sat at every bench they came across. They were old. Unless, of course, someone was sitting there that their old bones simply couldn't handle. Another photographer. Keller. The faintest of smiles appear on his face. One that would require a microscope or coming within very close proximity of his face, which would be awkward for both parties.
The point was, he was happy, even microscopically, to see this person, and quickly approached the bench, choosing to lean against it like some sort of badass, and peer over her shoulder as she fiddled with the buttons. He obviously had some sort of photographer fetish, although he wasn't skilled in the art in any way, shape, or form.
Other people were walking. Old ladies, guys with roller blades, children skipping around with balloons while their parents watched them with the look that Mister Anderson would have had if he wasn't so good at keeping everything inside and then some. Everything was green, since it was spring, and the winter had been crazy. It was pretty, though almost blinding, then bordered on irritating. Fucking green everywhere. And the humidity was beginning to get to him.
Shorts did not exist. And if they did, obviously something was wrong with his head. Jeans, skinny, flared, straight-leg, it didn't matter. They had to reach his ankles and beyond. But a pair of particularly tight jeans and even a thin plaid shirt stood useless against the heat. Small beads of sweat began to collect along his forehead, still hidden, but there. He needed to sit. It had probably been hours since he'd been off of his feet, since time obviously couldn't exist in a place that was so green and outside. There were no clocks. There was no time.
An elderly woman a few yards ahead of him turned her head slightly to look at something, he assumed. He also assumed that it was a bench, even though the woman didn't sit, and old ladies usually sat at every bench they came across. They were old. Unless, of course, someone was sitting there that their old bones simply couldn't handle. Another photographer. Keller. The faintest of smiles appear on his face. One that would require a microscope or coming within very close proximity of his face, which would be awkward for both parties.
The point was, he was happy, even microscopically, to see this person, and quickly approached the bench, choosing to lean against it like some sort of badass, and peer over her shoulder as she fiddled with the buttons. He obviously had some sort of photographer fetish, although he wasn't skilled in the art in any way, shape, or form.
THE APPLICATION FORM WAS MADE BY FOREVER YOUNG OF CAUTION 2.0.
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