Post by Jackson Blackwell on Oct 9, 2008 17:21:09 GMT -5
ST.SOPHIA ACADEMY.
this script took fifteen years to create with
five years of headaches but it was all worth it as
the collaboration with Jackson made this fab![/size]
[/ul]
"we've got a cracked lens."
[/Color]full name • Jackson Blackwell
nick names • None
birthdate • January 19, 1990
age • 18
grade • Senior
birthplace • Tampa, Florida
hometown • Tampa, Florida
sexuality • Bisexual
"there's a rip in my dress."
[/Color]height • 5'9"
weight • 140
build • Slim/Slender
hair • Black
eyes • Blue
piercings • Snakebites, which he sometimes wears
tattoos • He has numerous tatoos, up and down his arms and above his pelvis
distingushing features • Tatoos
play by • Pete Wentz
"line four makes no sense."
[/Color]likes •
Talking
Partying
Drinking
Hanging out
His friends
Making out
Friends with Benifits
Smoking
Sex
Hypocrites
Irony
dislikes •
Jerks
The worse drugs [crack, heroine, etc]
slutty girls
Snobs
Fight-starters
Cynics
strengths • Jackson can take one hell of a beating, thanks to his dad.
weaknesses • His mood swings; when he's "off" and he's pissed, he won't stop fighting until you knock him out.
habits/quirks • Constantly flirting
fears • His parents
dreams • To perform on stage
goals • To master bass
secrets • his parents beat him, his depression, along with a few other things
overall •
Jackson is known for being the nicest guy; hardly anyone is nicer. He jokes around, he flirts, although at times he can be a bit over-protective of his friends.
So yeah, Jackson's about the nicest guy you can meet, but has something close to multiple personalitites. He is either "on" or "off". Basically, when he is "on", he's just his usual, nice, happy-go-lucky self. When he's "off", he is either really pissed or really depressed. No matter how he's feeling, though, his emotions tend to be contagious.
He doesn't mind fighting, though he'd prefer not to do it, especially since he know's he's not the best fighter in the world. He loves making out, and will do practically anything with someone, as long as he has their permission first. He would never force himself on someone.
"but i thought they were dating."
[/Color]mother • Randy Blackwell; 45; car mechanic
father • Janice Blackwell; 42; none
siblings • N/A
pets • N/A
other family • None; grandparents are dead
overall • [[Hope you don't mind if I use a part of a post on a previous site to describe his history? And that I use for the rp post?]]
""I had the kind of parents that were violent drunks... And they were alcoholics. Thanks to them I was born an alcoholic with a very high tolerance to alcohol. But they're never sober; they drink more often than I do."
He turned her hand over gently, trying not to touch the disinfectant on the other side of her hand. He got another Q-Tip, dipped it in the disinfectant, and continued, dabbing once more at her hand. "I survived in a living hell through most of my childhood. I became one of those rekless kids that didn't care if he lived or died; it didn't surprise anyone that I was always so beat up, after a while.
"Then the rockers moved in. Even as the trend grew, I resented them, unwilling to let loose and party; I thought everyone was like my parents. You piss them off and they beat the shit out of you. Not that I didn't start fights anyway." The two Q-Tips were added to the pile of glass, and he pulled out some gauze pads and medical tape, working on setting them in place.
"I didn't even trust my friends. Or, rather, the other kids that were thrill-seekers and looked up to me." He scoffed. "They were idiots. But, I guess, so was I. Anyway, I was... Eleven or twelve when I finally let someone introduce me to the rockers. Suddenly, cigarettes, weed, alcohol, and parties became my life outside of home. Due to the terror I felt when I actually was at home, I developed something close to schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. I'm either 'on' or I'm 'off'; I have a manic personality. Not many people have seen me when I'm pissed off and 'off'; no one here has." He glanced up at Livea before looking back to what he was doing. "Not even you. Some of the rockers back 'home' saw me like that and they said I scared the shit out of them. My eyes would dialate and I wouldn't care what happened to me; You'd have to knock me out in a fight to get me to stop.
"Anyway, my parents started to get ticked when I ignored my curfew all the time." He now had a white wrap, which he began to wind around her arm and hand, leaving it just loose enough at the wrist for movement.
"When I was fifteen, my parents beat me nearly unconcious to keep me home. They shut me in the attic, which was huge and aired somewhat, thankfully, with bars over the single sky window... They remembered me three days later, and got pissed at me for them not remembering." His eyes became downcast as he finished off the wrap. "They didn't even take me to the fucking hospital." He tied it off and stared at her hand for a minute, placing his other one on top of it so he was clasping it gegntlly. Scars riddled his hands and arms, some identicle to her own cuts."
"this movie is total nuts."
[/Color]other • None
roleplay sample •
[[from another site]]
"No problem." The pile at Jackson's side slowly grew in size. Smiling but not taking his eyes off her hand, he said, "But you like art? Ah, you're right; that's [not[/i] something I know, kinda cool to know it now. But as for the trick, it's easy; get a big box, and when someone asks you what you're doing, balance it on something so it looks heavy and look in it. Say you're taking whatever to the other side of the stoor, and you're good for aw hile. Get to the aisle, dump something in the box, and put it back on the shelf very carefully. It looks like you're doing nothing more than working very hard. He laughed. "Yeah, I'm a bad employee. If I'm told to do something else, I just dump whatever on the shelf and move on." He chuckled, squinting as he pulled out the last piece of glass.
"Ah, that was a big one. Hold on a sec..." He began rummaging through the bag. "You know, even if you're used to being in pain, causing yourself more won't help much, and in your case, it'll rack up one hell of a bill." He brandished a Q-Tip dipped in disinfectant and started dabbing at the cuts. "I know that from experience." He sighed a bit. "And, since I know your story, or at least part of it, it's only fair I tell you mine, too.
"I had the kind of parents that were violent drunks... And they were alcoholics. Thanks to them I was born an alcoholic with a very high tolerance to alcohol. But they're never sober; they drink more often than I do."
He turned her hand over gently, trying not to touch the disinfectant on the other side of her hand. He got another Q-Tip, dipped it in the disinfectant, and continued, dabbing once more at her hand. "I survived in a living hell through most of my childhood. I became one of those rekless kids that didn't care if he lived or died; it didn't surprise anyone that I was always so beat up, after a while.
"Then the rockers moved in. Even as the trend grew, I resented them, unwilling to let loose and party; I thought everyone was like my parents. You piss them off and they beat the shit out of you. Not that I didn't start fights anyway." The two Q-Tips were added to the pile of glass, and he pulled out some gauze pads and medical tape, working on setting them in place.
"I didn't even trust my friends. Or, rather, the other kids that were thrill-seekers and looked up to me." He scoffed. "They were idiots. But, I guess, so was I. Anyway, I was... Eleven or twelve when I finally let someone introduce me to the rockers. Suddenly, cigarettes, weed, alcohol, and parties became my life outside of home. Due to the terror I felt when I actually was at home, I developed something close to schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. I'm either 'on' or I'm 'off'; I have a manic personality. Not many people have seen me when I'm pissed off and 'off'; no one here has." He glanced up at Livea before looking back to what he was doing. "Not even you. Some of the rockers back 'home' saw me like that and they said I scared the shit out of them. My eyes would dialate and I wouldn't care what happened to me; You'd have to knock me out in a fight to get me to stop.
"Anyway, my parents started to get ticked when I ignored my curfew all the time." He now had a white wrap, which he began to wind around her arm and hand, leaving it just loose enough at the wrist for movement.
"When I was fifteen, my parents beat me nearly unconcious to keep me home. They shut me in the attic, which was huge and aired somewhat, thankfully, with bars over the single sky window... They remembered me three days later, and got pissed at me for them not remembering." His eyes became downcast as he finished off the wrap. "They didn't even take me to the fucking hospital." He tied it off and stared at her hand for a minute, placing his other one on top of it so he was clasping it gegntlly. Scars riddled his hands and arms, some identicle to her own cuts.
"The thing is... You've dealt with your shit for so long... You're pretty damn tough." He looked her in the eyes. "It's someting you can get over, and that you can get away from. It just takes a shitload of guts and the 'I-don't-give-a-fuck-what-happens-to-me' attitude that comes from dealing with shit for so long. And... And not everyone's like that, Livea. It may seem hard to believe, but they're not. You're going to have to realize that, or... You'll destryow yourself." He stood, offering his hand to help her up.
"And I know that you don't want me to get involved, but... CAn you really blame me? I promise I won't tell. Even if I do get arrested for attacking that bastard, which probably will, and even if I get sent back home, which my parents are threatening to do, I promise; I won't tell anyone. Just... Try not to tell anyone about me, too, OK? I'm still dealing with it, but if everyone finds out... My parents will win the shit that comes with it because my record's too screwed upm and things'll just get worse. I'll tell some people, but not everyone. Maybe I'll eventually get brave like you and admit it to more people." He smiled at her, then, remembering, scooped up his bag of stuf and held it out to her. "Ah, you should have everything you'll need in here. If you need help re-bandaging your hand, ask me." He offered a mischevious smile. "I've done it drunk and with one hand to myself... A lot." He laughed, any hint of his depression gone. He was his normal cheery self as he laced his fingers together and placed them behind his head, his usuay wide smile slapped on his face.
"So, you wanna chill with me until my shift's over? ...Or do you want to go ahead and leave? Thisisn't exactly the most exciting place, I know. Unless you count the forklift."
Secret word ADMIN EDIT (:[/SIZE] [/font]
