The impossibility of space and time, is something that's so terrifying, that it's also inspiring.

+ Abby
+ I have owned CGH for almost 2 years, and have roleplayed in other clubs as well. I think you know what I have done / what I am capable of.
+ Originality is something that I pride myself on. I often recycle character ideas, but they were always my own.
+ I deserve a chance because I am creative and witty. I honestly love stories more than anything in the world. It's why I'm majoring in Cinema, because I love stories. Love, Loss, Lust, Wonder, Hope, Joy, Insanity. It's all so intriguing to me. Why people do the things they do.
+ I am involved with CGH mainly. Hopefully Jackson, and /sometimes/ Benton.
+ I honestly don't use the same model many times. I like to keep things flowing. So, I'll just name my favorite models to my favorite characters. I shamefully admit I ADORE VS models: Candice Swanepoel, Rosie Huntington-Whiteley, Adriana Lima & Miranda Kerr. The non-VS would be: Ginta Lapina, Gemma Ward, Montana Cox, Cintia Dicker & Barbara Palvin.
+ Tempest Beretta Steele +
+ Tempest is known by her last name. The government knows her as Steel. She's a South American assassin, of the most dangerous kind. +
+ +
+ The year is 2040, USA has turned communist +
&- You see Steel, the gorgeous raven haired girl with piercing-soul hooking ice blue eyes and the most perfectly plump lips. She walks down 5th avenue, unfortunately, she draws the attention of the most beautiful socialites in the world. They've heard of her, the think, the unbearably stunning girl with... a bite.
&- You, a tourist, intrigued and blind to the 'real' world decide to be a dumbass and follow her. Steel smiles brightly at the stunned doorman at the famed St. Regis Hotel. And is let in without a question, you take a moment and realize that your khaki pants and your puffy blue long Gap coat probably aren't going to get you in. Not compared to the Raven beauties, Balmain leather pants (which is the cost of your mortgage) and her Rick Owens Black Leather jacket (which is your car payment) not to mention the black jimmy choo stilettos (which is your insurance payments) You sigh, and watch the ever mysterious girl from outside. Like a pathetic window-shopper looking at everything you will never have.
&- She walks to the front desk and smiles, she checks in, under the name, "Rosie Prye," she pulls her ID out of the LV wallet she held in her pocket. The only thing she needed right now was her gun. That was tucked safely. She checks in. She starts down the golden hallway, Choo's clacking on the $1500 per tile marble flooring. So clean, she could check her reflection. Noticing not her lips, she pulls out her Marilyn red D&G lipstick and applies a coat. She lightly drops it back in her pocket and fluffs her hair.
&- She stops infront of the elevator and looks around. It's on-season the wealthy tourists from the west are /everywhere/ she sighs and can't take safety off her gun until she reaches the penthouse suite. Where her target, the President, awaits. She smiles devilishly making the other people in the lift, rather uncomfortable, but more terrified than anything. After 18 floors the last people get off. The next two were the penthouse suites. One mine, One Mr. President's. She quickly and stealthily pulls out two magnums she had tucked under her shirt on her back. She makes sure the knife around her ankle is easy access. But before she does any of this, she deactivates the cameras that are no doubt in the lift. With what? With her lipstick of course. All female assassins /must/ have some sort of beauty product that doubles as an electronic device.
&- The lift doors ding open, she glances up, giggles and stares dead ahead. Let the games begin.

two comments

Wrote three years ago
+ Lucy Harper Sloane +
+ Sweet and Innocent. Two common words to describe me. Often said in a disgustingly condescending tone, like I'm a puppy or a kitten, or a freaking baby. No. I'm a 20 year old who needs a job. I am not a puppy. I am a fighter. More than anything, a fighter.+
+ +
&- I sit in the dingy office of Merlotte's Bar & Grill. My bum just kind of rests at the top, since the diner seats are springs and a thin layer of cotton from the 80s. I look around, well, it's a diner to say the least. At least the food smelled amazing. All the waitresses are really pretty. I glance down at my outfit and sigh. I hated being /so/ stupidly self-conscious. I could feel the judgment and stares from, (hopefully) my future co-workers. I run my hand ontop of my tightly pulled hair. Ponytails said /professional/. I smile softly.
&- It's been such a problem with me, trying to compensate for my horrible low self-esteem. All through high school I had to stop and tell myself I was worth it before I could do literally anything. I thought it would all change when I went to college. But, it didn't. If anything it got worse. All that judgment for not being in a sorority, or being a sl ut, or wanting to party. I found it terribly outrageous. But, that still doesn't mean it didn't hurt. ANYWAYS.
&- I glance around and hear a deep voice call me in. The other girl walks out, red-faced and holding back tears. Oh shit. The nerves crash against me, like a fu cking car crash. I sigh. Take a deep breath. And open the door. I turn around and shut it softly behind me. I turn around again and smile at him, I hold my hand out, the big smile still plastered on my face. He looks at me like I'm an idiot and doesn't bother with the handshake. ... I don't even know if I want to work here. What a dick. I giggle nervously and sit down. I grab an envelope out of my tote and hand it to him. He looks at me like I'm an idiot. I just shake it off, and say softly, "My Resumé" Yet again. He looks at me like I told that to him in Spanish.
&- I smile on. "I'm Lucy Sloane. I was a barista at starbucks in High school. I was at a job for the last two years at Sephora but I quit, wasn't really my thing" He chuckles, I knew exactly how he meant. He meant it as a, 'well obviously makeup isn't your thing. Look at you. You. Look. Terrible.' I nervously pull at the hem of my blouse and wobble on my heels. I smile on. It's getting harder, and harder to do. I'm just getting pissed. Who's this guy to treat me like this? I was about to start up talking about my schooling and what I hope to do. That's when blondie-boobie walks in. She giggles and throws her hands up to her face in a 'oops, i didn't mean to walk in, but when i put my arms like this, it squishes my fake boobies together.'

Wrote three years ago
&- He looks at his sheet, presumably the name after mine. and says, "Welcome to Merlotte's Bar & Grill Tiffany. I'm Sam." He glances at me like, 'what the fu ck are you /still/ doing here.' I lose my SHIT. I slam my hands down on his desk and lean over it so I'm a mere 6 inches away from his face. I say. Quietly, but with a sharpness that could probably cut glass. "Listen /Sam/. I don't know who you think you are. But I did /not/ quit my job to get a new job at a /famed/ bar. I did not drive a half hour to not be listened to. Disrespected. Condescended upon. AND IGNORED. I refuse to be treated like that ANYMORE. I don't even care if you give me the job anymore. Give it to Blondie-boobie girly. But she won't work half as hard as I would, NOR does she have HALF the credentials that I do."
&- He stares at me; stunned, insulted and impressed. He chuckles once and sits back in his over-priced IKEA chair. He nods and holds his hands out. "You'll do just fine I think. You're much hotter close up. You start tomorrow. Show cleavage and wear your hair down. This isn't the fu cking news." He motions us to both get out. Tiffany storms out. I graciously grab my tote, and close the door behind me. I couldn't believe what had just happened. Did that just happen? I wasn't really quite sure yet. Maybe it didn't. ... Whatever. I don't care.


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