Post by tt on Dec 28, 2010 23:08:13 GMT -6
LISSALAETITIALUNE
“Well, tell me a little about yourself. What’s your name?”
Can I first ask whose bright idea it was to have all my names start with L's? Lissa Laetitia Lune. Known to the public as Lissa Lune, or just Lissa. Some people call me Liss. Or Lissy. I don't understand how changing the vowel on the end of my name makes it a nickname, but then again English isn't my best subject. Christ. I don't have a best subject. But we're getting off topic. I'm sorry. I tend to do that. I'm not used to this. Not being under the influence of something. So just try to follow my sporadic thoughts. Was that even the right use of sporadic? Christ, I have no F*cking clue. So. I was named Lissa because my mother's mother is named Vasilisa. You know, like the fairytale princess? But my mother thought that name was too Russian, so she shortened it to Lissa. And yes, that's Lissa. Not Lisa. My name is not Lisa.
So, my middle name. My middle name is Laetitia. I think it might mean happiness. My family likes to tell people that's why they named me Laetitia. When they went over the story, they thought that naming your kid after a winery wouldn't score them huge points with the press. And my family is all about looking good for the press. It's kind of funny, though. That my middle name came from a winery. Like my parents always knew I'd be the type to drink -- or swallow, snort, you name it -- anything I could get my hands on. Oh, yes, my friends, in there lies the heart of my being. Aren't I F*cking poetic.
“Next question, how’s school?”
School. School is great, really, loving it. Doing well in all my subjects. Well. Actually. I'd be failing them if the school wasn't afraid of my parents. I don't blame them, though. My parents can be pretty scary. I used to check for them under my bed every night. Screw the boogeyman. But no, all kidding aside, I'm not the best student. I always got good grades, and I suspect my parents bribed or threatened to get me them. They couldn't care less if I'm actually learning something, as long as I didn't make them look bad. God forbid. My teachers, well, they pretty much let me do my own thing. They no doubt had orders from the principal to leave me alone, and so I usually just sat in the back of the classroom, high out of my mind, in some other freaking universe. If I mouthed off in class, they would gently chastise me, so it didn't seem like favoritism, but behind all that appearance bullshit you could tell that they really didn't care. At the risk of sounding emo, no one ever does. Oh, sure, they take pictures of you walking down the street with your mother, and they might even try to befriend you, but if you look closely? I promise you. No one really cares.
“What did you do when you weren’t in school?”
Well. This area is a little foggy. Not all of my memories are intact. Some of them are spun with hallucinations. That's what happens when you pop as many pills as I do. Did. Whatever. I'm pretty sure I hung out in my eighteen- and nineteen-year-old friends apartments a lot. I'm not sure on all of the things we did. Got high, obviously. Whatever we could get, we took. Those were my real friends, pretty much. The ones who didn't care if they were hanging out with Lissa Lune, because they wanted to escape themselves as much as I did. And if theirself happened to be hanging out with, well, Lissa Lune? Good for freaking them. It was amazing. I think we also watched a lot of shitty TV. I'm sorry, I keep swearing. When I don't know what to say, I swear. Spacefillers. Better than "um" and "uh" and "like," but pretty bad anyway. I'll try to stop. No promises. I'm already stopping a lot of things right now. But anyway. It wasn't a S*x club or anything, but occasionally we'd hook up with one another. I mean, I'm not a slut. Definitely not. I hate sluts. They're so fake. And I'm way too real. Far too real. I've never slept with anyone -- or did more than a chaste kiss -- clean and sober. But then again, I'm rarely clean and sober.
“Tell me about your friends and family. How are your relationships with them?”
Oh, you're going to make me talk about my family, aren't you? I don't see why you have to. It's probably in the newspaper at this very moment. I can just see the headlines. "Michael Lune's Daughter Arrested!" Scandal scandal. I'm sure my parents would be yelling at me over them, if they were even talking to me. They're probably too busy in the press conferences to return my calls. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Because I'd rather it be that than them just ignoring me. But who am I kidding? They're probably just ignoring me.
All right. So you want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Like court? Well, I guess I am far overdue for an explanation. And I'll try to set the record straight. You see, as I'm sure you already know, my father is Rich Lune. As in, Rich Lune, the king of country music? And my mother is Lana Ikov, the eerily perfect supermodel-turned-trophy-wife. They're a perfect match. They're both despicable people. You know, one time, I was five years old. Hold on, I'm going to tell a story here, and I don't do this a lot, so pay attention. My mother had taken me out to get ice cream. She didn't eat hers or let me eat mine, of course. Lana Ikov and her daughter don't eat sugary things. But it looked like a mother-and-daughter thing to do, she no doubt figured. We walked home -- mild exercise, plus more chance to be seen by the cameras. They were renovating one of the buildings on the way, and I tripped over a spare brick in the sidewalk. I skinned my knees and started crying. My mother practically carried me home, livid. I got my skirt dirty and let the paps get pictures of me crying. She yelled at me for an hour, flinging every insult she could come up with in English and Russian, and didn't let me eat dinner. I'm sure she would've hit me if it wouldn't have shown on our trip to the beach next week. Can't let anyone think Lana Ikov or her daughter are any less than perfect.
Now friends. God. I don't even know the meaning of that word. Okay, that's not true. I have friends. I'll stop my drama queen bitching and tell you about them. My best friend is Elle. Her real name is Pamela, but she will hit you if you call her that. And she's got quite the arm. She's very intense. Everything is intense with her. The highs, the lows... her gaze, her movements... it all screams intensity. Then there's KC, who might be my longest friend. He's a guy. We used to hang back in lower school. He's something of a pervert now, but we put up with his obnoxiousness. He can be quite the gentleman if he deigns. Which he rarely does. When he's just holed up in hotel rooms with our gang, he's bi, drunk, and perpetually horny. Really. The man has stamina. Kayla is really, really pretty, but she has serious dark circles under her eyes. She doesn't sleep, as a general rule. She survives on coffee and meth. When she does sleep, it's just for an hour or two at a time, at the longest. If she's really tired, she'll drift off for a minute and a half or so. She's always fidgeting, probably trying to keep herself awake. I don't know. Probably. But she's always finger combing her hair. Rolling her neck. Stretching her back. She also has this quirk of typing her fingers as if she had a keyboard. Anyway, then there's Jack, or the kid. He's only fifteen, but we let him hang with us because he has a way of getting what he wants from people. He doesn't do the more hardcore drugs, but can usually get them for us. So we keep him around. He has a lot of energy. Never walks from place to place. Always running.
There's a few more people that sometimes hang out with me, but not all the time like Elle, KC, Kayla, and Jack. There's Kira, Kayla's older sister. She's the smartest of us, but those aren't exactly huge shoes to fill, if you know what I'm saying. I can't believe I said 'if you know what I'm saying.' All right. Then there's Jeremy. He's a twin, but we don't know the other one. Jeremy is an amazing singer. If he ever got sober enough to play somewhere public, he'd get a manager for sure. Cody is the quiet one. He may not say much, but when he says something, it's awesome. Hilarious, or profound, ro whatever. Just awesome. He's also really pale but convinced he's black. It's cute. Well, he's cute. Peter only hangs with us once in a while, but he likes to be the center of attention. Jessica's the same way, but more in a bitchy way. We usually try to avoid Jessica. It's whatever with Peter. But we're whatever people.
And that pretty much sums up the only people in the world I give a shit about.
“Well we know about your friends and family, but what do you think about yourself? Describe yourself to me.”
Oh, now you want to know about Lissa. Now we're getting into interview territory. I don't like interviews. You should probably know that. My parents used to make me go to them, when I was a young teen. They gave me sandwiches. That was the only pleasant part of it. I like sandwiches. But I'm going to take a flying leap of faith off of a F*cking balcony and guess that you don't have any goddamn sandwiches.
Oops. Sorry. Said I wouldn't swear. These mood swings are really getting to me. I have a bad history with interviews. But I'm not going to give you the public story here, so hopefully we'll be okay.
I remember my first day of school. Some of the kids parents had clearly told them to befriend me. I can see that now. So I was popular, for one day. But after I screamed at someone for spilling their grape juice on me, I was quickly ostracized. Was that the right use of ostracized? Dude. I have no clue. I should really think before I start using words I don't know. But back to the story. And aren't you the lucky one, getting all these stories. Don't expect this to be a regular thing, okay? So it was pretty understandable that I freaked out over having a purple stain on my frilly pink shirt, since I knew my mother would scream and hurl insults at me when I got home. "You stupid klutz! Can't you do anything right? You're worthless. You're ruining me." Then she hit me, hard, in the stomach. There were no beach trips that week. My mother might be a small, waiflike woman, but God could she pack a punch. I have this really, really clear memory of looking down and seeing my pink satin blouse stained purple near the navel. After I'd bitched out the girl who spilled on me, my popularity was long gone.
In middle school, I started to get picked on. The popular boys would spit on me while the popular girls giggled and eww-ed halfheartedly. When the girls were on their own, they could be twice as mean. They called me names and laughed when I tried to fling insults back. They loved to hide my stuff. That was one of my least favorites, because if I lost something there would be hell to pay at home. I'm ashamed to say I actually let my mother dress me a couple times. My mother is chokingly trendy. It didn't help, and after a while I stopped giving a shit. I rolled my eyes at their insults put F*ck-you post it notes on the stuff they liked to steal. I'm actually really good at drawing the finger. And after a while, they found some new social lowlife to pick on.
When I stopped caring, I went up in popularity. KC and I became friends, and then Elle joined our little gang. We were constantly together in school. If we ever wanted to talk to someone, we all went up at the same time. I've been told it's intimidating. To this day, Jeremy calls it "swooping." In high school, the only people from my old school were Elle, KC, Jeremy, and a girl in the grade above me named Audrey. She was a smartass and we avoided her. High school was... interesting. A lot of people would try to befriend me, then stab me in the back. Come up to me and strike up a conversation. Use that information as inspiration for a new rumor. That kind of thing. I just laughed it off. Because it didn't bother me. Everybody gets to "I don't give a F*ck" sometimes. I was just always there. Still am. So ha ha ha, because I still don't give a F*ck.
I don't really want to talk about my family life any more. My mother enjoys torturing me, and my father ignores me ever since I screamed at him that I hate country music. He used to only pay attention to me when the cameras were rolling. Now, he doesn't even bother then. But I do hate country music. God, I can't stand it. Funny thing for Rich Lune's daughter to say? Maybe. Honestly, I think you'd expect it. But I'm pretty close to the issue. So don't trust me.
I'm going to be surprised if you don't know what I look like. Not an ego thing. My parents just like to plaster my picture all over the media. But I'll describe myself anyway. I have brown, almost black hair. I'm 5'2" and 98 pounds. Mainly because my mother freaks if I break a hundred, and starves me for a week. Can't have Lana Ikov's daughter looking doughy. God forbid. You know what? I think I'll put on some weight in reform school. Just because I can now. This might be a step closer to jail, but I've got all these new freedoms here. The only downside is I can't get high. But to be honest, that's a big downside. Giant. Huge. Taj Mahal. Mount Everest. Jupiter.
Anyway, I've got a faint tan. I usually like to fill in my brows and use plenty of mascara for an intense eye look. Guess who taught me that? Yeah. Elle. She's good with makeup. So basically, I'm a small brunette with gold skin and dark eyes. They're brown. If you're interested. I also have no body hair except for eyelashes, eyebrows, and the hair on my head. I can't stand the feel of body hair. Arms, armpits, legs... anywhere. Even the one or two clear hairs on my big toe get waxed. I don't really mind waxings. It'll make me sound like a freak, but I kinda like them. They're very rejuvenating. And I'm like eighty percent sure I used rejuvenate correctly, so go me. I'm not entirely sure what that sentence means. Wow. I'm out of it. Let's move on. I think I've talked enough about myself. Aren't I self absorbed? Well, what would you expect.
“Have you had any trouble with the law?”
Oh, now we're getting to the good stuff. I was wondering when this question would come. Well. I got a DUI once, but my parents swept it under the rug. There are plenty of dirty cops willing to take a bribe. Makes you feel a little less safe, huh? Well. Anyway. Other than my final arrest -- you know, the one that landed me in here? Yeah, that one -- I didn't get in a lot of trouble with the law. I'm not saying I was exactly a Stepford kid. Whatever that is. Other than drug usage, I have a history with vandalization. But the difference is that I never got caught for that. I don't know if that's because, if we deigned to write on or spray paint something, it was at night, in a dark and shady corner when we were dressed in all black, or because the places we happened to vandalize weren't exactly looking for vandals. I really wish there was a synonym for vandalize that I could think of. But anyway. I think I mentioned this before, but we have -- had? -- a habit of hanging out in hotel rooms. The W, the Maritime, whatever. Our parents had enough money to spare, so we always had a temporary home-away-from-home. We switched hotels so that we could switch credit cards. We didn't want our parents getting too suspicious. Like, where the hell is all this money going? And then looking through the credit records. But we stayed in expensive hotels and ordered whatever the hell we wanted on room service. It was fun. But back to the point. Those kind of places don't really expect punk kids to write on their shit. So the parking lots aren't well guarded. You just have to escape the valet. I don't even know why they need huge parking lots in New York City, but whatever. I didn't get into trouble with that stuff, though. So I guess just the covered up DUI and, of course, the drug arrest that sent me here.
“Why did you do it?”
Do you really want to know why I became a druggie? Why I took anything anybody gave to me, no questions asked? Not to have fun. But to forget. To get away from the fucked-up-ed-ness of my life. Oopsie. I swore. My bad. I know I really shouldn't be complaining about my life. My privileged little life. But... you can't understand it. It's just... I never asked for this. And... God. I'm rarely speechless. Did I say that before? I can't remember.
“What is the worst thing you’ve done?”
1st person, at least one paragraph.
"What the thing you're most proud of?"
1st person, at least one paragraph.
"Got any vices?"
1st person, at least one paragraph.Vices=Bad Habits(Smoking, Drinking...etc.
“If you could change one thing about your life what would it be?”
1st person, at least one paragraph.
“What act got you sent here and who recommended it?”
I finally got arrested for showing up to a club, high out of my mind. I don't remember it. Apparently I had a fake ID. I didn't know I had a fake ID. The name on it was Jenna Ford. It doesn't ring a bell. Anyway, the bouncer thought I looked familiar. It's not surprising, since my fake ID picture was a cut out from an article my parents had gotten some magazine to do about us. It was mainly about them, thank god, but they mentioned me in passing and had a "family portrait." This whole thing was about a year and a half ago, so I have no idea how I got the picture. Internet, maybe. Back to the story. So the bouncer -- who allegedly reads trashy, girly magazines -- was worried by my eyes. In the police report, he called them "huge and red, like tomatoes." Yeah, I'm Tomato Eye Girl. I've come to save the day with my powers of flying and memory loss! Too bad the flying is only in my head and the memory loss is my own. No, I think if I had a superpower it would be supersonic sarcasm. I can fight evil with my dry wit. But god. I'm off topic. Where the hell did supersonic sarcasm come from? And can I have a glass of water? And maybe something to make my hands stop shaking. If you're interested, I feel like complete shit. And there goes the swearing. I'm really trying not to. So then they sent a policeman over. They did some tests. Or something. I don't know. I can't remember. Whatever happened, it was apparently grounds to take me -- and my friends -- back to the station for more tests. I don't remember those either. But apparently I tested off the charts for drug usage. I'm not surprised, if I was high enough to go to a club. We usually try to avoid that scene.
“Do you deserve to be here?”
1st person, at least one paragraph.
"Tell me about your life before B.A.D. contacted you."
1st person, at least 2-3 paragraphs.
Last Name, First Name, Middle Initial:
Race:
DOB and Age:
Age admitted to Blackwood’s Academy: age and how long you been here.
Grade:
Health issues: Asthma, chronic back pain…etc
Other: any other notes about the character
Race:
DOB and Age:
Age admitted to Blackwood’s Academy: age and how long you been here.
Grade:
Health issues: Asthma, chronic back pain…etc
Other: any other notes about the character
Your name: What you want to be called.
How you found us:
Code word in the Rules:
Play by: