Matt Boi

[matti]

...Matt Andrews Boi*
*They Bleed, OH LORD, They Bleed, OH LORD - And I Watch Them All The While*

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...basics*

name matt boi
nickname matti boy, matt
age TEXT HERE
gender male
grade TEXT HERE
hometown -----, hawaii
sexuality god knows anymore
personification tigger
status dormant
face claim tre cool of green day

...appearance*

hair color light brown or dirty blond, consider it what you may
eye color shocking green/blue
build tall, able to fight for himself, in a sense
height six feet nine inches
clothing style suits suits and suits galor!
distinctive traits his eyes and personality, along with his almost gentleman-ly clothing style.

...personal*

personality AT LEAST THREE PARAGRAPHS
past AT LEAST THREE PARAGRAPHS
present AT LEAST TWO PARAGRAPHS
family PARENTS AND SIBLINGS
likes
+x+ music, of course. his specialty is drums
+x+ pleasant days out. he loves nice strolls on the beach, hee hee
+x+ his accent, and how it has confused countless masses of people over the years
+x+
+x+
dislikes AT LEAST FIVE
other notes TEXT HERE

...literature*

book title TEXT HERE
backstory A BRIEF SUMMARY OF YOUR CANON'S PART IN THE STORY. ONE-TWO PARAPGRAPHS

...roleplayer*

name мaттι
age sixteen
gender Female, 'ai.
rp experience I've had a good..... 7-8 years of experience, mainly on Gaia. This is my first Proboards, to be truthful.
how you found ouac Uhm, I was lurkin' on me friend's computer. And she had this as one of her favorites. I haven't seen any of her work here, though.
rp sample It was not a grand morning. It most certaintly was not so. He had woken up with the worst headache ever, and the cold kept biting at his face, which hung out from behind his hair, limp upon the neck it sat upon. Oh, yes, this was the usual sort of morning for Samuel, during the winter. He was more of a, as you could say, /tropical/ breed. He'd rather be out doing yard work in the burning summer sun than in the snow, period. It just wasn't... Wasn't his thing, if you'd wish to call it as much. He was resting out on the chair, hidden away in the corner of his room. It was a tidy affair, with books carefully lining the bookshelves, and papers neatly pressed and stacked upon his desk. Everything had to be neat. He couldn't think straight when it wasn't neat. He couldn't work or concentrate or anything of the sort when his room was out of it's proper state. Hell, he rarely even let the staff come rushing in here. It had to be his way, or no way.

A brief sigh bubbled forth from within his chest, expelling through his opened mouth in a tiresome manner, the tone ragged and worn with the hidden effort his life held. Sometimes he felt like he was worked out more than the lowliest slave out there. Maybe even all the slaves on a large plantation, combined. For all he knew, it could be the case. It was highly unlikely that someone kept track of how battered and torn-up one became after hard labor. Yes, highly doubtful. He nipped at a finger, which tugged and twisted at his lower lip, eyes narrowed in some sort of daydream. Dreaming of who know's what, and god know's where the setting was placed. Sometimes he felt like his mind was one of the many books that rested upon the shelves towering above his room.

He swiveled around in the chair, listening intently to the noises of the household around him. It seemed almost... normal. Almost, so infuriatingly normal. He wished and begged and cried over the concept of having a normal life. He had lived enough of it to know he hated it. But he knew of no other livlihood and reality to go through, to compare his own experiences to. Even still, he was jealous of what the others had. And by others, he meant the rest of the Mayflower family. The one's who were, sadly, blood related to him. And just as bad off as he. But, even still, he seemed almost perfectly fine, compared to most of their bloody lives. Take little brat Dorian (He would, sadly, never know that Samuel called him as such. He better not, at least. Or Samuel'd be dead as a doorknob.), for example. That carriage ride with his parents, masters of the household, had left him without an eye and in charge of the entire estate. Everything, under the control of a snotty fourteen-year-old. And that, sadly, included himself.

Samuel's parents were perfectly fine, he was perfectly fine (Save for that lack of a second eyeball of his. He was, actually, born with two of them. He just lost it. It was quite the sore topic for him.) in every which way. He sighed olnce more, exhaling through his nose right after in a gnarled snort. Yes, he did so love making random noises to show his displeasure. But he was a gentleman, and that meant to never do as such around the presence of another. No, no, no, he would never show his true emotions to others. You were either polite and kept them to yourself, or you were a rude little bastard and threw them at everyone. One kept a handle on their emotions, or let their reputation fall. And he was most assuredly not going to let /that/ happen.

He rose from his chair, unsure as to where he would possible go. He shrugged into the jacket of his favorite suit, which he wore at home or out on the town, it didn't quite matter. Samuel thrust himself towards a mirror, staring at his reflection in slight annoyance. His hair was behaving, as was the state of his skin. This was all perfectly fine and dandy. But his lack of sleep had gotten to his remaining eye, tendrils of blood pulsing through the eye whites as if to tell the whole world he had troubles. He rubbed at it, digging his knuckles angrily into his flesh. That was, well, somewhat better. He removed his presence from the mirror, eneding up before the door. He stretched his palm forwards to embrace the cool of the doorknob, which he twisted casually as he would step outwards, into the hall. He didn't look up, not yet, and wasn't too aware of his surroundings. For all he knew, he was crashing into a wall. But he wasn't, oh, no, he couldn't let that happen to himself. It just wasn't /right/.

Not that he was exactly positive, but he could hear voices all over the manor, on and off. They were muffled and blunt, due to all this damned snow. But still, but still, but still... His mind tried to wrap around some sort of concept, around a person and a face to connect to the voices. If only to find someone to talk to, to get his mind off of the endless terrors that came to him when he was alone, at night, in his mind. They weren't figments of his imagination, lord no. They were memories, crude and deadly and difficult to swallow. These memories were of any other thing, things that shouldn't haunt him. He does his job, he lives his life, and goes on with what he has to do.

Even still, he hated the feeling that crept into his heart at the idea of having to, say, take away the memories of someone. To erase a part of their history. It was like taking away someone's experience in the world, and it could horribly diroientate them. No one was sure why he had this 'gift'. At least, everyone else called it a gift. The ones that were deathly afraid that their cursed family members, or even themselves, would be found out... They loved his ability, thought it was a gift from god himself. At least, not Dorian. No, no, not that god. Knowing him, Samuel would have never been trusted with such a huge role in every day life for the Mayflower family. To him, though, this ability was yet another curse, another burden to have to throw over his shoulder and carry all through out his days.

To be blunt, he hated it.