Post by Emma Sullivan on Jun 27, 2010 22:07:06 GMT -6
[/color]
idon'tcareaboutclever,idon'tcareaboutfunny
emmelina claire sullivanbonjour, my name is Sara. i've got seventeen
tracks spinning on my record. i've got serious skill 'cause i've been roleplaying for six and i live in the Pacific timezone. to contact me try AIM - massa sharkk.
[/font][/size][/center]
iwantloadsofclothesandfuckloadsofdiamonds
name , Emmelina Claire Sullivan
nicknames , Emma, Em
age & date of birth , Twenty two, September 20th
gender , Female
sexual orientation , Straight
occupation , Grad student/intern
played by , Jaimie Alexander
[/size]
ihearpeoplediewhiletryingtofindthem
height , 5'9”
weight , Between 150 and 160
basic appearance, Emma has never considered herself amazingly beautiful, perhaps because she's a bit of a perfectionist and can spot flaws from a mile away. She had some self esteem issues in middle school and her first two years of high school but has now accepted her flaws and can focus in on what she likes about herself. You only get one body to live in, why spend your years hating it?
Standing at 5'9” almost on the dot, Emma greatly enjoys her above average height. She does not, however, enjoy the lack of any serious boobage. She's still the same A cup she was in her freshman year of high school, and she has taken to jokingly calling them “tittles” after hearing the Jeff Dunham joke about small breasts. 5'9” and flat-chested sounds like the beginnings of a model's description, but Emmelina is far from. That model who said something like “skinny feels better than food tastes” or something? Yeah, Emma thinks she's insane. Emma has a hearty appetite and the bit of extra weight to show for it. She has great hips and a nice butt – perhaps nature's way of making up for the small chest – and some extra fat collected around that area, as well as a very small stomach pooch. Not a fan of the kind of physical activity that slims you down, Emmelina's arms are undefined and on the chubby side in comparison to the rest of her body. Her legs are long but athletic, not at all twiggy or skeletal.
Emma got lucky when it comes to her rather boring brown hair; it's not too thick or too thin, and is generally pretty easy to manage. It's usually kept loose or thrown into a messy ponytail, as Emma is not one to spend time on her hair just to ride or go to class. When at the office, she usually opts for a very neat bun, partly because it's polished and professional and partly because it's very simple. She has no bangs to grapple with and has never felt the need to get them; she doesn't particularly like the look and while her forehead is high, it is not quite the dreaded “fivehead” that some women like to cover with sideswept fringe. The rest of Emma's face is a nice balance of angles and softness; her chin is strong but rounded, her jawline is not too sharp, her nose is wide but well sloped, and her cheekbones are defined without making her face look hollow. A small “beauty mark” to the right of her nose adds character to her countenance; the girl hated this little speck up until her later high school years, when she began to appreciate how unique it was.
One flaw that has always annoyed Emmelina is that most of her features seem to be slanted just a bit, the left side higher than the right. This is particularly noticeable when it comes to her mouth; if she's not smiling, you can notice that slight tilt. The slant probably wouldn't be as noticeable if her lips were fuller, but they are very, very average. The size of Emma's green-gray eyes helps to disguise this trait in that area; they are very big and very round, fringed by long, thick lashes. As large as her eyes are Emma doesn't have a lot of eyelid space, and this image is strengthened by the fact that she doesn't have much brow space either. Her eyebrows lie very near to her eyes, and while they have obviously been shaped she is not willing to shave off her eyebrows and pencil them on higher up, as she finds it tacky.
physical flaws, Features tilted slightly
Flat chested
Certain problem areas; arms, hips, tummy
[/size]
life'saboutfilmstarsandlessaboutmothers
likes , Riding
Sports
Animals, especially horses and dogs
Playing and listening to music
Reading
Having her hair played with
The ocean
Chocolate
Spicy food
Food in general
Coffee
dislikes , Spiders
Slurping, loud chewing, etc
Rap/hip hop/pop
Mornings
Sour food
Shopping
Charles Dickens
When guys wear too much cologne
Horror movies
Celebrity gossip
overall personality , Emma is generally rather laid back, but is not without a constant spark of energy and a fiery streak passed down from the women in her family. Although she is for the most part an impeccably mannered young lady, Emma has a mouth on her like a sailor, and when angered she will unleash a torrent of words so foul you wouldn't think they'd ever be able to come out of such a pretty girl's mouth. Aside from that one very uncouth quality, she is polite, highly intelligent, and possessed of an honest desire for knowledge. Emma loves to watch the news and read political blogs, debate issues both salient and trivial, and pick the brains of those whom she holds in high esteem. This makes it very easy for her to get along with and make a good impression on teachers and her elders in general, but can also make her come off as a suckup and an intellectual snob to her peers. In some ways, she is; she can't stand people who can only talk about American Idol or who some celebrity has been having sex with recently and aren't even slightly educated on issues that are actually important to the country and society as a whole. She seems to have it in her head that 70% of the people around her are idiots incapable of holding an intelligent conversation or formulating an opinion of their own instead of simply parroting what they hear from parents or talking heads.
While Emmelina may enjoy intellectual pursuits, she definitely has a goofy side as well. Stupid things like videos of hamsters on pianos can entertain her for hours, and silly movies like Superbad or The Hangover can have her howling with laughter and quoting them until it's hard work to refrain from smacking her. She has a fondness for morbid and black humor and can appreciate some crude humor as well. One rather embarrassing fact that very few people know about Emma is that she is something of a prankster. She loves crank calls and is quite good at them herself; her days of cranking ended in her sophomore year of high school, though, so now she lives through her Crank Yankers DVDs. Yes, she can be a bit of a dork, but fortunately her friends seem to find this more charming than irritating.
Emmelina is far from confrontational but refuses to let herself be walked all over. Growing up privileged, she is not at all used to people treating her with disrespect and will not take it lying down if she feels she is not being treated appropriately. That being said, she's not delusional; she doesn't feel that people owe her the world or should treat her with adoration and adulation. All she asks for is basic respect and human kindness, which she readily gives to everyone she meets. Emma follows the "do unto others" rule pretty much to the letter. This often translates into the "eye for an eye" rule as well. Although she does try her best to take the high road and not "sink to their level," as they say, sometimes revenge is just too sweet for her to resist. Like the time she caught someone cheating off her Biology pop quiz? She just so happened to lose that person's quiz when it came time to pass it to the front of the room and later on accidentally dropped two of the guy's homework assignments into her backpack and later the trashcan.
Emma isn't a saint by any means, but she likes to think that she sees to it that justice is done. From a young age, Emma saw it as her duty to watch out not only for her friends but any kids who were picked on by others. She embraced the role of watchdog and protector at an early age, not caring that it earned her the title of tattletale. She is highly family- and friend-oriented, very much a "mother bear." She spends a lot of quality time with her family while still managing to not only hang with friends but make sure they're eating right and feeling okay, all those kinds of things that the "mother" of every group of friends is concerned with. Quick with a smile, a bit of advice, or just a kind word, Emma is a good friend to have by your side.
[/size]
it'sallaboutfastcarsandcussingeachother
hometown , Hillsborough, California, USA
family , Jeremy Ciaran Sullivan, father
Giada Marie Sullivan, mother
Anthony Tiernan Sullivan, brother
pets , None (yet)
history , The second and last child born to Jeremy and Giada Sullivan, Emmelina Sullivan has known nothing but the lap of luxury. While her father came from a working class family and is certainly a self-made man, her mother is the second child of the sixth generation of a very wealthy family – old money and all that. Well loved and doted on excessively by every member of her family, it would've been quite easy for her to end up a spoiled brat. Emma probably would've enjoyed this greatly - what child wouldn't? - but unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) her father had worked his ass off to put himself through school, slowly climbing the socioeconomic ladder with no help from anyone. A man like that would not only see to it that his children would never want for anything, but never abide by having spoiled children with no motivation or work ethic. Chores were a part of Emma's routine from the age of seven, and the importance of earning good grades was practically drilled into her head from about the same age. She was a precocious child who had very little difficulty in school and showed a healthy appetite for knowledge from a young age.
Chores and good grades were a comparatively small price to pay for the way Emma lived. She had her two wonderful parents and a pretty awesome older brother, a dog, a cat, and the greatest hobby in the world: riding. Emma had begun taking lessons at six years old but was not given the string of ponies and horses that many wealthy young children in the equestrian world are. Both of her parents agreed that a horse was too big a responsibility for her to handle and would distract her too much from her schooling. In their minds, lessons and eventually the opportunity to compete in shows were more than enough. Emma didn't mind too much. Sure, she was jealous of the girls at the barn who had cute little show ponies, but as soon as it sank in that a pony of her own was not in her future, she contented herself with riding school horses in each of her three lessons a week. As she progressed she leased a couple of mounts and rode horses for people who for any number of reasons couldn't do so themselves, but a horse of her own was never part of the picture.
Emma balanced school, friends, and riding with the expertise of someone much older. Her forte was obviously academics; the girl never earned anything less than a B in her four years in high school, all heavily laden with AP courses. This is a very important instance where not owning a horse was very beneficial to Emma. If she had to take care of a horse of her own, it's highly unlikely that she would've been able to manage the piles of schoolwork and many late nights of studying that came with her courses. The girl's social life was almost always on the back burner, and while she did go out with friends a few times a month, she never went to parties or out clubbing or anything like that. She had always been more of a homebody and was a borderline prude, so she certainly didn't feel as though she were missing out on anything.
When the time for college applications rolled around, Emmelina applied to a few safety schools along with her “top five”: UC Davis, UC Berkeley, Dartmouth, Cornell, and Stanford. Much to Emma's chagrin, Dartmouth, Cornell, and Stanford essentially told her to go fly a kite. When she got Dartmouth's rejection letter, she pooh-poohed the school as not living up to all the hype anyway. When Cornell's rejection came, she cried like a baby. When Stanford crushed her dreams, she cried like a baby and spent days ranting at anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path about how the Stanford admissions board must be comprised of idiots if they didn't want to accept her.
After Emma got over herself and began a lot of soul searching and logical thinking, she decided that attending UC Berkeley was the best choice for her. It wasn't Ivy League, but it was still a great school that she was very lucky to get into, and it was close enough to Hillsborough that she could drive home if she wanted to. At this point in time Emma was only seventeen years old and still quite attached to her family; she liked the idea of independence, but was still frightened of having to make it on her own far away from them. The summer they graduated, Emmelina and her best friend Hannah, who was attending San Francisco State in the fall, moved into an apartment about twenty minutes away from both schools. Things seemed absolutely perfect; Emma would be going to a good school, living with her best friend, and still be close enough to home that she could visit her family whenever she wanted to, as well as take one riding lesson a week with her trainer of eight years.
For the next four years, life was good. She worked her ass off, of course, but also learned how to loosen up and temper work with some play. Hannah was most likely the biggest factor in this; whenever it looked like Emma's head was about to explode from being stuffed full of disorders and symptoms and proper courses of treatment, Hannah would close the books and drag her friend out to dinner, a movie, or some kind of get together. Eventually Emma learned to understand when it was time to take a break for the sake of her sanity, and this probably helped her grades a lot more than the many, many hours of study time she clocked during the course of her four years at Berkeley.
Emma began her Psychology studies with absolutely no idea what she would specialize in. In her second year she took a class in adolescent psychology with a professor who looked not much older than an adolescent herself. Dr. Cynthia Bauer was a tall woman with a bright smile and a long shock of black hair as big as her personality. Though she looked quite young the woman had been teaching for six years, and this was easy to see in her ability to cover material thoroughly but simply, as well the fresh, lively attitude that had not been dampened by decades of teaching. Emma not only fell in love with the subject but immediately gravitated towards the woman and asked her to be her advisor not halfway into the class. The doctor was most helpful to Emmelina during the rest of her schooling, helping her choose classes and professors according to the girl's own preferences.
Towards the end of Emmelina's junior year, Dr. Bauer approached the girl about the opportunity to be a part of a Master's program in adolescent psychology conducted by a colleague of hers at DePaul University in Chicago. In addition to basic classes, the forty students in the program would all have paid internships at psychologist's offices in the area. The woman seemed convinced that Emma would be a perfect candidate for it, but the fact that the school was affiliated with Roman Catholicism put Emma, somewhere between agnostic and apathetic, off the idea of attending. She ended up deciding that it wasn't a huge deal and applied at the beginning of her senior year. The girl kept herself busy with coursework (and some parties here and there) for the months it took to hear back from DePaul. Emmelina had been accepted, of course, due in no small part to the almost four pages of glowing praise Dr. Bauer had written on her behalf.
That year Emma graduated cum laude, much to the joy of everyone in her family. Her parents gave her the choice of graduation gifts: they would replace the trusty Civic that had been handed down to her by her brother with a shiny new car, or buy Emma her very first horse. The decision was a simple one. The Civic was older but solid as a rock, and now that she was going to be moving out on her own, she wouldn't be financially stable enough to purchase a horse for a long time. She picked the horse, of course.
Making plans for her years at DePaul took precedence over horse shopping, so Emma did not begin the search until she had registered for all of her classes and found a place to live. Most apartments in Chicago itself were ridiculously expensive, so the search had expanded to the smaller, quieter suburbs just outside the big city. It took some time to find the little city of Caramel Rivers, but Emma was convinced that it was the best choice. It was smaller, quieter, fifteen minutes from campus, definitely cheaper and, best of all, home to a nice equestrian center that she could keep her future horse at. She quickly snatched up an apartment and breathed a sigh of relief.
The search for Emma's first horse began with little success. She still hadn't found the horse she wanted when it came time to move to Chicago, and she packed her belongings up with a heavy heart. Her trainer made some calls to colleagues to find a trainer in the area who could help with the search, and while there was indeed a trainer willing to help out, the girl wished she would have the trainer who knew her inside and out on her side.
Now settled into her apartment in Caramel Rivers, attending classes, and interning, the horse search is once again on the back burner until she has adjusted completely to her new life.
[/size]
itdoesn'tmatter'cuzi'mpackingplastic
[/size]other , admin changed
roleplay sample ,
Right around the same time that the blonde was appraising him, Benoit Castel was returning the favor. His brown eyes, always alight with an interested and sometimes curious warmth, sized her up carefully, but not in the predatory way of a man searching for the smallest signs of vulnerability or willingness. Light blonde hair, big blue eyes fringed by thick lashes and framed by dark, perfectly arched brows. It registers that she is pretty, of course, but what really catches Ben is the look in the eyes that quickly dart away from him. They are not glazed over anymore. They gleam dully with something between hate and disgusted disinterest. It's the kind of look you see in the eyes of a fifty-seven year old man hunched over himself in a smoky bar, nursing a glass of the cheapest whiskey the bar has so he can go back for another glass, and another, and another, because from where he's standing quantity reigns over quality. It's the exact same look, but its settled in the eyes of a young, beautiful girl, painted into the lines of her face. Apathy. There's the word, apathy. How sad, for someone so young to feel so old, so jaded. Interesting, very interesting, but still sad.
Ben is not expecting to hear laughter in reaction to his defense. Perhaps he should have, though; it stands to reason that a girl who thinks all men want is to get into her pants would find the notion that they can be genuinely friendly, with no ulterior motives, absolutely absurd. He doesn't take offense to this. He doesn't even respond, in fact, except to pose the question that she doesn't quite seem to understand. It figures. She's quite tipsy, nearing the point where she can officially be labeled as “drunk,” so it's rather a wonder that she's understood everything he's said to her up until now. It takes her a moment but she answers, sarcasm thickening her voice even as the pitch rises to a mocking tone when she says his name. Normally Ben might've found this statement (which is almost an accusation) quite irritating and made his way over to more agreeable company, but he is far too interested in this girl to leave over something so small. And hey, she's drunk; it could've been much worse. A frown passes over his face, but he makes no move to exit stage right.
The drummer shrugged his shoulders slowly in response, dragging a hand across his brow to clear a lock of hair from where it had mingled with his eyelashes. “Sorry to bust your bubble, but “nailing you,” as you so eloquently put it, was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted a beer, happened to almost spill some on you, and struck up a conversation.” Benny shrugs again here, as if he doesn't feel the need to defend himself further – probably because he doesn't. He didn't say anything crude or remotely inappropriate, or straight up proposition her as so many men seem to do. Besides, if she had really taken offense to his attention and was unwilling to deal with his presence, she would've stumbled away and found another spot where she could drink herself into oblivion.
The girl slams her glass down onto the bar with a loud clink before signaling to the bartender for another round. Ben takes advantage of the silence to drain over half of his beer, still puzzling over this girl. The moment he moves the bottle from against his lips, a comment about not being on his game spills from between hers. He laughs at this, a free, solid chuckle that shakes his shoulders slightly. The girl still couldn't believe that he wasn't looking to fuck her, which should've been more frustrating than amusing. Ben, now silent but still smiling in the aftermath of his laughter, shook his head slightly before pointing at her refilled glass and then at his chest, a silent signal that he'd put whatever she was having on his tab. What a fun game to be playing, buying her a drink despite the fact that he had no intention of taking her home, boggle her already alcohol-addled mind and frustrate her, prove her wrong.
A few speechless moments stretched between them. Ben finished his beer, held up the empty brown bottle to ask for another. He watched the girl sip at her drink from his peripheral vision, noting that the pale hands that clutched the short, squat glass trembled. Then the floodgates opened.
Benny sat quietly and listened to the girl with a rather bemused expression on his face. He doesn't mean to make light of whatever events have made her so bitter, so angry. In fact, that's actually what he's thinking about as she's continuing with her outburst. How many men had dined and ditched her to leave her in this state? Had she really liked them, liked them too much to see the honest intentions behind the paper thin layer of smiles and jokes and suave? He feels slightly odd for wondering about the intimate details of the love life of a girl he met just moments ago, but that certainly doesn't stop him. Ben leaves his state of silent thought a moment or two after she is done speaking. He takes a sip of the new beer placed in front of him before he says anything.
“Aww, come on now,” he said – almost drawled, even – with a sarcastic smirk thinning his lips. “I'm the drummer, everybody knows the drummer never gets any action. I've learned to expect that the only banging I'll be doing is onstage, fully clothed, sticks against drums.”
“I'm not going to lie and tell you that men can't act like pigs, but do you honestly think only men can break hearts? You women are quite good at it yourselves, yunno. And it isn't after a night or two, no no noooo. It'll be years later, after we've let you into our lives and fallen in love with you. Which one's worse, d'yathink?” A sharp, distinct note of bitterness had edged its way into his voice now. Benny worries that the blonde will notice and realize that he is far too bitter to simply be parrying her thrust, but he remembers that she's intoxicated and probably – hopefully – not capable of catching on to the nuances of tone.
After many minutes of verbal combat, the girl finally offers him her name. Ben smiles and responds with what is quite possibly the oddest equivalent of “nice to meet you” in the history of conversation.
“Oh, I'm afraid we won't be sleeping with each other tonight, Ava. My mother raised me right, I know you've got to at least take a girl to dinner before you can love her and leave her. Besides, having sex with a drunk girl is legally considered rape.”
Ben is not expecting to hear laughter in reaction to his defense. Perhaps he should have, though; it stands to reason that a girl who thinks all men want is to get into her pants would find the notion that they can be genuinely friendly, with no ulterior motives, absolutely absurd. He doesn't take offense to this. He doesn't even respond, in fact, except to pose the question that she doesn't quite seem to understand. It figures. She's quite tipsy, nearing the point where she can officially be labeled as “drunk,” so it's rather a wonder that she's understood everything he's said to her up until now. It takes her a moment but she answers, sarcasm thickening her voice even as the pitch rises to a mocking tone when she says his name. Normally Ben might've found this statement (which is almost an accusation) quite irritating and made his way over to more agreeable company, but he is far too interested in this girl to leave over something so small. And hey, she's drunk; it could've been much worse. A frown passes over his face, but he makes no move to exit stage right.
The drummer shrugged his shoulders slowly in response, dragging a hand across his brow to clear a lock of hair from where it had mingled with his eyelashes. “Sorry to bust your bubble, but “nailing you,” as you so eloquently put it, was the last thing on my mind. I just wanted a beer, happened to almost spill some on you, and struck up a conversation.” Benny shrugs again here, as if he doesn't feel the need to defend himself further – probably because he doesn't. He didn't say anything crude or remotely inappropriate, or straight up proposition her as so many men seem to do. Besides, if she had really taken offense to his attention and was unwilling to deal with his presence, she would've stumbled away and found another spot where she could drink herself into oblivion.
The girl slams her glass down onto the bar with a loud clink before signaling to the bartender for another round. Ben takes advantage of the silence to drain over half of his beer, still puzzling over this girl. The moment he moves the bottle from against his lips, a comment about not being on his game spills from between hers. He laughs at this, a free, solid chuckle that shakes his shoulders slightly. The girl still couldn't believe that he wasn't looking to fuck her, which should've been more frustrating than amusing. Ben, now silent but still smiling in the aftermath of his laughter, shook his head slightly before pointing at her refilled glass and then at his chest, a silent signal that he'd put whatever she was having on his tab. What a fun game to be playing, buying her a drink despite the fact that he had no intention of taking her home, boggle her already alcohol-addled mind and frustrate her, prove her wrong.
A few speechless moments stretched between them. Ben finished his beer, held up the empty brown bottle to ask for another. He watched the girl sip at her drink from his peripheral vision, noting that the pale hands that clutched the short, squat glass trembled. Then the floodgates opened.
Benny sat quietly and listened to the girl with a rather bemused expression on his face. He doesn't mean to make light of whatever events have made her so bitter, so angry. In fact, that's actually what he's thinking about as she's continuing with her outburst. How many men had dined and ditched her to leave her in this state? Had she really liked them, liked them too much to see the honest intentions behind the paper thin layer of smiles and jokes and suave? He feels slightly odd for wondering about the intimate details of the love life of a girl he met just moments ago, but that certainly doesn't stop him. Ben leaves his state of silent thought a moment or two after she is done speaking. He takes a sip of the new beer placed in front of him before he says anything.
“Aww, come on now,” he said – almost drawled, even – with a sarcastic smirk thinning his lips. “I'm the drummer, everybody knows the drummer never gets any action. I've learned to expect that the only banging I'll be doing is onstage, fully clothed, sticks against drums.”
“I'm not going to lie and tell you that men can't act like pigs, but do you honestly think only men can break hearts? You women are quite good at it yourselves, yunno. And it isn't after a night or two, no no noooo. It'll be years later, after we've let you into our lives and fallen in love with you. Which one's worse, d'yathink?” A sharp, distinct note of bitterness had edged its way into his voice now. Benny worries that the blonde will notice and realize that he is far too bitter to simply be parrying her thrust, but he remembers that she's intoxicated and probably – hopefully – not capable of catching on to the nuances of tone.
After many minutes of verbal combat, the girl finally offers him her name. Ben smiles and responds with what is quite possibly the oddest equivalent of “nice to meet you” in the history of conversation.
“Oh, I'm afraid we won't be sleeping with each other tonight, Ava. My mother raised me right, I know you've got to at least take a girl to dinner before you can love her and leave her. Besides, having sex with a drunk girl is legally considered rape.”
[/size]
andthat'swhatmakesmylifesofuckingfantastic
[/size][/size][/center][/blockquote][/blockquote]
mmkay. so this application hurr was made by AMANDA IN WONDERLAND !? of caution. steal it or take off this credit, and i shall hunt you down and eat your insides! lyrics credit to lily allen.
