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You Know Me

You Know Me


I think you know me better than I thought...

699 readers have visited You Know Me since Lovely VonSchultz created it.

Copyright: The creator of this roleplay has attributed some or all of its content to the following sources:


Hey, don’t I know you from somewhere?


Aren’t you the one…?

The one? From what?

The one from my dream?


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Hurricanes of colors twisted in and out of consciousness. Tornadoes of red, green, pink, yellow, and a little purple spun madly from eye to eye, ear to ear, sounding like rushing water and feeling like cold pricks of rain. Astrid’s eyelids were heavy, her lashes glued together by wet, sleep, drugs and a bit of alcohol mixed in somewhere in there. Her mind kept whispering things; haunting things, precious things. Songs of life, hymns of death, little snippets of disease and rock’n’roll. Amongst all the banter and chatter, Astrid could hear the small voice in her chest praying. It was so soft she could only make out the soft hiss of the “Hail Mary“ the tender tick-tack of the rosary clicking in her slender fingers.


The voice was not her own and made her entire body twitch as if seizing up. The cold wet stuck her clothes to her voluptuous body and she could feel the glue holding her eyelashes together begin to melt away. The words, whispers, and prayers shimmered, almost faded, then returned again.

Are you dead?

Inside, a thousand voices laughed hysterically, clawed at their eyes and pulled out their hair. Little Astree’s all dancing wildly about her head, praying for what hadn’t come yet. Was she dead? Was she dead? What did it mean to be “dead“? That little prayer continued, the rushing colors drowning out the clicking of the rosary.

Hail mary, full of grace… the Lord is with thee…

The delirious cackling was dying away as the prayer began to feed itself into her lips. They tasted of metallic water and acid. The water pelted her everywhere this time, keeping her body in a wild mess of sensations, rainbows, and sounds she couldn’t discern from each other anymore. Her brain rammed itself into her skull and the first sound that escaped her long throat was a hideous groan of displeasure and regret.

“So, you are alive.” The voice had been… whatever his name was. Astrid wasn’t on the remembering committee this morning, and he had most likely fallen off the bandwagon with her. The shower was freezing cold and sent Astrid’s waking body into wild Goosebumps accompanied with their dear friend, The Shivers. She grabbed at the side of the plastic tub and hurled herself onto the floor. A mistake for her stomach, for instantly her head was ducked below the rim of the toilet seat and whatever small contents her body had were emptying into the sewers below.

“When you’re done, get out.” The man wasn’t too happy she was still there. But then again, upon closer investigation, he probably wasn’t too happy about the other man laying unconscious on the floor beside her. Astrid didn’t remember him showing up here. Perhaps he’d joined them later on in the night? Hours after she’d completely blacked out and quite possibly did stupid things she’d rather not resurface. After another healthy vomit, Astrid wiped her mouth with a lot of toilet paper and checked the man’s pulse. Good, he was alive. Disguising her use of his head as something to push herself upward with an awkward pat on his cheek, Astrid staggered up to her feet, weak ankles and swimming head. Her exit was as graceful as a swan with a broken wing, perhaps without so much frantic flapping about and honking. She stumbled a few times, and it took her a few minutes to realize that the sunglasses she’d put on her face were upside down. Astrid was a dangerous disaster bent on getting into a clean tub and between the cool sheets of her own bed.

Hot baths. Cold tea. The sound of water trickling over the plastic and clay pots filled with dirt. Just a few things to cool off the body and the mind. Naps with the window open. Finding new colors to match with forbidden tastes. Linking them to silver. For a moment, a bird whistled and caught her attention. It was on these boundless days that Astrid worked her hardest to stay sane. The bird took her out of her mind numbing tasks. It whispered a little ditty that traveled on the wind into her well-kept but raggedy apartment. A wing flapped at its side as it pecked at the joint there just beside its head. The neck twisted almost completely around. It called out again, as if expecting an answer from some distant place. What would it be calling to? Astrid saw plenty of birds. Pidgeons, Starlings, plenty of sparrows and chick-a-dees. They were colorful in the light. Shimmering with little rainbows on each oily feather. Each one something that, with one flap, could lift them high into the sky. How strange and how magnificent.

A few twenties flicked against each other, catching Astrid’s eyes just in the view of the bird she’d caught herself envying. They were shoved inside one of her many cardboard jewelry boxes. It was painted up with spray paint and left over acrylics from Etienne’s last visit. How long ago had that been? A few months. He wrote often enough, and that was nice. His lack of visits was just as nice. Sometimes, the young man had a way of really cramping Astrid’s style. He made her feel… like she was wrong. He cared too much and when she pushed away he only pulled closer. Marie was a saint. Astrid loved Marie for her raw decision to disown the french woman. It had been intelligent, passionate, angry, and perfect. The less people that cared for Astrid, the better everything would go.

The dress she chose was familiar to her. It had been his grandmother’s. Laying across her knees and covering her neck and chest. The ivory lace buttoned up over her chest and she smiled at the way it left her shape ambiguous… for the most part. Her hair tangled up at the nape of her neck with a nest of pins and clips keeping it away from her face and exposed back. The coat was too big, but that was just fine. The bird tweeted at her, empty eyes cocked to the side as if inspecting the strange way she chose worn out boots to wear with a lacey, feminine dress. Astrid flipped it off and laughed outloud when it simply turned its head in the opposite direction. How beautifully delightful.

Every club was too much for her. Astrid was not one to run the club scene. With their designer drugs and hoity-toity, tanned, rich brats who spewed stupidity; it did nothing for her to even try it out. Taking risks was a real thing for Astrid and the glittery establishments were all talk without much do. Instead, the platinum haired woman traversed the darker, harder side of the city. Tiny doors with no windows and gruffy men working the bar were closer to her taste. She enjoyed the thrill of being around men who carried heavy secrets on their shoulders. What was better than getting mixed up with “the wrong crowd”? Not the emo brats that smoked pot recreationally crowds, but the mysterious, dangerous men that dealt in the real dangers of the world. Violence surrounded them and Astrid could practically taste the instability.

Sometimes she frequented these places. Astrid was recognized and welcomed with uncanny smiles and eyes that wanted to take her into a private room. Other times, she wanted something fresh, something new. It wasn’t like her to hang around any one place for too long. This woman did not get attached. Attachments were complicated and she wasn’t a huge fan of messes. It was important to not assume this by looking at her apartment, however.

The bar stool had peanut shells on it and she wiped it off with one nice swing of her hand. Pulling her rear over the worn in, lacquered wood of the bar stool, she smiled wryly at the tender. “Sweet Child O’Mine” played loud on some machine hidden behind pool tables and chairs. Music was nice to listen to when she needed to fill up the silence in her heart, though most of the time it only made the silence louder. She knew nothing of this song, its meaning, or the band that now played it through the speakers; she really didn’t care. Her slicing eyes stayed on the patrons of the bar.

“Hey Sweetie,” a smooth voice stirred up from behind the bar. He was probably in his fifties and his greasy slicked back hair proved his age. Astrid smiled, though, knowing that an insult right off the bat would just lose her a good chance at some real danger tonight. “What can I get ya?”

“Enchante,” she cooed and leaned back. It was a psychological thing; something subconscious she never actually realized she did. Keep yourself as far away as possible. “If you wouldn’t mind, Sweetie, I would love a Disaronno and cranberry.” Holding out her thin fingers, she offered her knuckles to him. He lifted an eyebrow at her. Perhaps it was the thickness of her accent or maybe the way she spoke so easily to him. Whatever it was that drew him to her, he couldn’t insult her. It was her allure coupled with the unstable fire that lit up her eyes when he grabbed her hand to find the twenty tucked neatly under her thumb. He smiled now, nodding at her order.

When he turned his back, she lifted her curvy upper lip in distress. She only had one more twenty left and he was probably going to keep the change as a tip. Those skeletal fingers made their way into her bangs and hairline. Hopefully she found herself someone drunk enough to buy her a few more drinks. Hopefully the same person would help her put her own life in danger again tonight.

It was the small things, really.


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He wasn't really conscious.

Not in the sense that you'd be even mildly aware of anything. Smooth, ceramic squares pressed against Acelyn's stubbly cheek. It felt grossly similar to the underside of a pillow's refreshing belly—the cool side of the pillow, if it wasn't for the cruddy grout grating against his skin. The repetitive whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of an overhead fan beat it's battle drum through his aching skull. It rattled around like maraca’s, only four million times more unpleasant; twelve-hundred helicopters' dropping nuclear bombs. Too much energy was required to lift his numb hands from the floor to dampen the sounds. Someone opened the bathroom door, stirring the hairballs that littered the floor but doing nothing for the putrid air. Vomit spotted the tiles and discoloured the sink. Chunks of something clung to the wall. His eyes fluttered closed. Empty hands, empty everything. The air was tight and hot, flavoured faintly with the skunky odour of pot. Two weeks. Two weeks without her. Two weeks with half a heart.


Bursts of colours pulsed behind his eyelids, folding within themselves like broken slide viewers. He dreamt of black hair, and soft skin, and rhythmic breathing, and the bluest eyes he's ever known. He dreamt of how he didn't want to remember her: nightmares that gurgled like bile in the back of his parched throat. She's sick. Her breathings laboured. It's an effort for her chest to rise and fall. Her eyes are closed. Two cement anchors holding them shut, refusing to filter any light. Light had been pushed out the door. In dreams, she's there. She smiles. She breathes. She laughs and moves and watches and hears and is. She exists as she should. In nightmares, she's there. You are with her. You hurt her. Careless words, careless actions. Blame hangs it's noose around his neck, while Disgrace kicks the chair from beneath his flailing legs. He couldn't move. His heart's stuck. Nailed to the floor of this strangers' place. Bleeding and thumping tiredly.

I pray, you never feel this kind of remorse.

He doesn't flinch when the lock clicked; doesn't even lift his head to open his eyes and see who the intruder was. It's like déjà vu, but this was vividly, distinctly real. How many times had he ended up in a bathroom, in a house, in a neighbourhood he didn't recognize? This is not a sense of something having happened before, because this has happened before. Several times. Reducing himself into a aggressive, slobbering zombie, Acelyn's new habits were pretty disconcerting. He guzzled liquor like it was water on a sweltering day. Like it was something he needed to keep the blood in his veins' pumping through his heart. If he stopped, then he would stop breathing.

Open your eyes, won't you?

Cold fingers fumbled clumsily across Acelyn's neck, fingernails pinching against corded muscles and connecting with his heartbeat, noisily thumping across her fingertips. What'd she think he was, dead? Actually, it wasn't surprising. It wasn't like he'd made any move to acknowledge their situation. Hadn't allowed the groan to hiss pass his lips. This was followed shortly by an awkward cheek-pat; leverage to steady herself.

A person's senses—when facing severe intoxication—are stunted when they aren't conscious. They're retarded, hampered, restricted. Now, Acelyn's nostrils filled with the unpleasant odours of last nights' retches and salty sweat. His fingers twitched. An attempt to turn over was immediately halted by the toilet's base. His body felt overheated and he was suddenly desperate to move; to break the barrier of funk that clung to him and let new air surround his skin. Still, Acelyn's sleep-encrusted eyes remained firmly shut; shutting out all the possibilities of remembering what had happened last night. Instead, he'd simply flopped back across the bathroom floor, feigning sleep. His insides felt rough-lined and hollow; a cesspool of unknown liquids. Whoever it was that stirred next to him wasn't having the greatest time, heaving—a woman's groan, if you could even really tell by that alone—her guts into the toilet bowl. Another sickly soul losing a part of herself; diving off the bandwagon. He figured it was just something to do, another tiny step against the undercurrents of loneliness, pervasive and bone-deep as glacial winds. There's an ache in his skin that's begun to crawl through him, fluttering like an itch he can't scratch. Phantom limbs for limbs he still has, misfiring severed connections.

This was a sickness. This was a disease. It gnawed his pride to the quick, ignoring all the clean-cut nail-clippers only sitting a few feet away. It would've been a kindness to put him out of his misery. He could've bet his life on it that he wasn't the only one feeling this way. Something radiated from the woman filling up the space beside him, leaning heavily against the toilet. He couldn't see her leaving. But, Acelyn could feel her presence slowly disappear. He didn't reach towards her, but he knew that she was, without a doubt, leaving. A faint creak of protesting joints snapped his eyes open. Joints weary from dancing and stumbling down sidewalks. Swimming until they drowned.


Showering was supposed to be the Godliest gift when your head felt like it was rattling off your shoulders. Something was wrong with the fucking boiler system, which made the very idea of showering look as appealing as knowingly stepping into a holocaust gas chamber. But, Acelyn smelt like he'd passed out in a ditch—so it was inevitable. The tiled wall was, of course, made of steel; this was all the more infuriating when he instinctively cringed away from the stream of water in-between quick rinses of his hair. Darting backwards and forward like an epileptic old man. He jumped from the shock of the frigid surface against his skin, right back into the seemingly sub-zero stream of water; shampoo dripped into his eyes and burned. Pure sandalwood and mint, straight to the fucking eyes. He pounded his fist hard against the wall in frustration. The resulting rattle was hard enough to knock soap and shampoo bottle and razor from where they rest on a ledge, clattering around his feet and landing smartly across his toes. A yowl of pain that only a stubbed toe could evoke bubbled from his lips. It almost felt like his stomach was going to heave out, nauseating the groan to a stunted mewl.

Apparently, he hadn't escaped upchucking. After showering, Acelyn immediately sought release by stumbling over the shower's lip and slinging his arm across the toilet to keep himself from slipping in the puddle he'd formed around himself. There's nothing worse than retching bile. It's the stink. It's the smell of poison and your belly's inner lining. Small chunks of unknown orange swam like deformed guppies. When the fuck did he eat carrots? It was always carrots. His wet towel hung sopping wet across his knees, dragging against the ground where he knelt; breathing in and out, in and out. Disgust, Misery, Shame; frequent visitors that pulled his sheets across their twisted frames. Unwanted guests who questioned every single move until he dampened their voices with alcohol. Something quick, something strong. His legs felt like expired gelatin Moving was far too laborious. But, unrestrained tremors goose-bumped across his forearms, forcing him to make the conscientious decision to stand his sorry ass up. He relented to the droning chants of: Advil, Advil, Advil; Acelyn thumbed through the bottles before snapping off the red safety cover, letting it clatter into the sink. These were methodical, practised movements. Retch, reach, swallow. Quickly downing the pills in two large, dry swallows, Acelyn cracked his neck and looked towards the window.

What the hell am I doing? It was supposed to be a rhetorical one, and mental, at that, but it felt as if he'd screamed it until he was hoarse; the words slamming hard against the walls of his mind and echoing back into the throbbing space between. Perhaps, it wasn't the time for thinking. A small bird tittered on the windowsill, watching him with glossy, reflective eyes. It hopped into the slitted opening, unaware of any possible danger. Or maybe, that wasn't right. If Acelyn moved from his spot—not that he really wanted to—it'd probably stretch it's wings and fly away. It's life was static; never the same, completely reliant on open skies. It's spiderlegs twitched, preening it's colourful breast before it pecked lightly beneath it's reposed wing. The sunlight seemed to catch of it's vibrant colours, adding a polished, oily sheen. What was it, anyway? A starling? A robin? Acelyn wasn't knowledgeable when it came to birds. Now, plants—that was his thing. Gardens, roses, vineyards. Not birds. Those belonged to her.

His wife. Her name was Annie. This wasn't simple. This wasn't an unnecessary mourning period stretched over weeks. This was unbearable. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to be standing in his bathroom, alone, staring at a goddamn bird who was looking at him—looking at him like he wasn't dangerous. Like he was just another metal post on a street corner. He had never mourned anyone, or anything, for that matter, as he mourned for her. It wasn't so much a loss as it was a forceful, excruciating calamity; catastrophically destroying all remaining sentiments. Turning away from the window, Acelyn almost tripped on something rolling beneath his feet. It might've been the unsteady shake of his legs or the sudden nostalgia threatening to bring him to his knees, but no, no, it was the multitude of pills scattered across the floor like disposed Tic-Tacs. Half of them were unknown. One could never fully forget the events of that day. No therapy, no amount of overworking oneself, and no willful ignoring of the event could make one forget it. That day… No, not that day. The day. The day had been a critical point in his life. Satisfying himself with the crunching sound of pills underneath his feet, Acelyn swaggered from the room, mutely surprised by the sound of the tweeting bird. It hadn't moved.

Reality was a sobering experience.


You couldn't go to the clubs if you planned on sitting in the corner, guzzling down shots of whiskey like it was going outta' style. Orange complected hussies expected you to gather yourself up, buy them drinks and grind yourself against them, plastered against a dozen other sweating bodies. You could never tell who was old enough, how they'd gotten in the club in the first place or how many violations you'd be summing up by sliding your drunken-ass hand down their pants. It was a messy, immature place filled with tanned University students who still wore sunglasses at night and obnoxious giggles. Wouldn't have surprised him one bit if he recognized a few giggly faces. Acelyn didn't speak the same language, anyway. He was a teacher. They were only students. A disgusted snort escaped the corner of his upturned lips. Yeah, Acelyn was the teacher and they were the students. How many times had that accidentally happened in the span of two weeks? This was a sickness. This was a disease. It gnawed him raw.

Drinking is his answer. Always. He drinks for absolution—because oblivion is the only place he'll get that clemency. Destroying himself from the inside out was his only way towards forgiveness. And so, Acelyn's ponderously slow footsteps brought him closer and closer to his destination. He walked around like he was pinned to a cross, towards the darker, bleaker, more dangerous parts of town. Familiar locations that he thought he'd never lay eyes on again. It was like visiting a polyamorous friend that Acelyn wish hadn't even existed; the cause, the blame, the beginning. Now, that was ironic. What would they say when they saw him? Surely, they'd heard the news. He tried picturing their expressions but faltered. It didn't matter. Tonight, he'd drink. To the losses. To the regret. To the shame.

His eyes were dry and gritty by the time Acelyn arrived at the classy institution. His flaws were found and broken and adored, twisted beyond recognition into something even more vile and disgusting, bubbling like an blistering wound that was far more painful than amputation. But amputation it was—amputation of feeling, of emotion that wasn't carnal; that was no longer necessary to function. You didn't need to give a damn when you came to a place like this, even if the bartender was nice enough to slide you a few shots if you were looking down. The pubs neon hung heavy with the telltale depiction of a gutted pig rolled across it's back. It was real endearing if you squinted and looked sideways, maybe if you closed your eyes. Half the words flickered faintly. The others' were a muted, pale, dampened husk of what they'd been when the bar had first opened.

As much as Acelyn wanted to burst into the bar with a swift, violent kick—he didn't. He pushed the door open and strode in like he was coming home to his apartment. Actually, it wasn't too far from the mark if you knew how much he frequented this dingy place. It's smell assailed him like unwelcome memories, unbidden. With fasting black lungs and the last remnants of smoke curling from his lips and nose, Acelyn bee-lined towards the nearest stool without looking to see who he recognized. He kicked the wobbly wooden legs to discard the crumbs and took his place next to a platinum blonde, immediately drumming his scarred knuckles across the countertop. Like everything else in the bar, it wasn't clean. Several puddles of beer, whiskey, and whatever else rimmed circles across the lacquered surface. Permanent stains by permanent residents. A capillary hint of red. Fragments of teeth. Funny how things came back to you. “Sweet Child O' Mine” wrangled loudly from the worn machine pushed into the opposite corner, currently occupied by a surly-looking biker, tapping his thick fingers impatiently against the fluttering buttons.

All customers fit into one of three categories: there were the regulars who bartender's knew by name since they came in every night, or used to come in every night; then there were the occasionals who would come to drown their sorrows every now and again and finally the randoms (people who were on holiday or just visiting the area). Silk as velvet, the blonde's voice cooed something in French. He didn't understand a word and he doubted Jim did either. His head still hurts, but it's familiar. It's constant. So he knows that a headache doesn't hurt much. A part of him is slipping away from him, shredding away. He's unleashing something inside him, but it's more of a relief than pain. French. What kind of women spurts French in a shitty bar like this? Acelyn glanced towards her, arching an eyebrow. Tapered fingers curled lightly, inviting Jim to reach forward and retrieved the bill tucked between her knuckles. Disaronno and cranberry. A dangerous woman with expensive tastes. When Jim returned with her drink, Acelyn's eyebrows wiggled up, then slanted down, catching the bartender's ponderous gaze, a brief flash of recognition soon replaced by wrinkled creases. An old man's remembrance.

“Well, now, Ace—” The bartender began, leaning forward on his elbows before smoothing his fingertips across the bottles beneath the countertop. He retrieved two small shot glasses and filled them to the brim with whiskey, eyes muddied with questions. “Geez, it's been a long while, ain't it?” Acelyn glanced up, then shrugged his shoulders. He fished a couple twenties from his pocket and slid them across the counter top, busying himself with the shots instead of responding. Jim seemed to understand, nodding curtly before hurrying off to replace another man's empty glass. He tipped his head back to guzzle down his second shot, relishing the washing burn heating his belly, his throat. Now, the woman was combing her fingers through her hair like she'd just discovered she'd lost her whole damn wallet. It was the kind of look he'd seen on people who'd misplaced their credit cards; utter disappointment.

“A French girl in a shitty bar?” He settled the shot glass down, tipping it forward so that he could inspect the slight crack running up the bottom. A small, lopsided grin twisted his grizzly features. He dryly noted that he hadn't shaved. Good thing, too. His hands weren't that steady. He didn't do pickup lines. He didn't charm. He didn't lie. He pushed, pulled, and gritted his teeth. Women found it endearing while he found it sick. “Not very often I see that.”

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Character Portrait: Acelyn Winefield
0 sightings Acelyn Winefield played by Yonbibuns
WIPing, because I suck and deleted his profile.

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Character Portrait: Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux


Character Portrait: Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux
Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux

I fell apart, but got back up again, and then I fell apart...


Character Portrait: Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux
Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux

I fell apart, but got back up again, and then I fell apart...

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Character Portrait: Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux
Astrid Catharine Leona Molyneux

I fell apart, but got back up again, and then I fell apart...

Fullscreen Chat » Create Topic » You Know Me: Out of Character


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Most recent OOC posts in You Know Me

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

I just wanna' hear you sing. PERIOD. Y'know, I've got a really vast appreciation of music and used to play the drums, decently, but I've got a pretty masculine/androgynous voice and I think I'm secretly tone-deaf. I'm not sure and I'm too shy to sing seriously. My mum and older brother got the beautiful musical voices, but either way, I appreciate ANYONE who can sing. My heart swoons with envyyyyy. I believe in ya'.


Oh, oh! The Blue Van reminds me of Acelyn. Marina and the Diamonds reminds me of Astrid. And Anya Marina. AND the Civil Wars; both of them.

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

OI! NEW SONGS! YAY!!! :D I've been working my brain over trying to figure out a good way to cover "Annie". His voice is so raspy and wonderful... Mine is so rounded, deep, but rounded. Gotta make sure it works well with the song. >_> Not easy.

I have LOTS to do tomorrow!!! WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE <<<<<3333333

Re: [OOC] You Know Me


Ho' dear. And I'll reply to everythin', too. I found new songs that remind me of Ace and Astrid. So many!

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

OMG! That would be quite the coinky-dink if he were the man on the ground. You can certainly do that! It wasn't my intention, but the thing about it is Astrid wouldn't remember him anyway. She would certainly find him familiar, than perhaps realize where she knew him from, and then laugh her curvy bum off at the minuteness of the world.

Ace will come back with a vengeance, I'm sure. You played him so well before and he's just... so... AWESOME! (I need a bigger vocabulary.) AND IHEARTRADIO sucks for only being in America. HOW TERRIBLE! But if you'd like something else, there is Everything is indie, but its all different genres of the one genre.... I hope that wasn't too redundant. It's definitely a site I recommend a lot, the only problem is that you can't save the songs and a lot of them are impossible to find anywhere else. YAY ACE! YOU CAN DO IT YONNY!!! -fist pump-

My bro is fine, just made a last minute decisions to start Uni this semester. He needed a place to stay to ease the financial aide load. Hopefully he can be an RA next semester. That would be free room and board. He needs that. And now since we've been living together for a while, we got a schedule going so I know when he's gone and I have time at home. -rubs palms together- I'm working on cool stuff. Lots of percussion and rough voices are whizzing through my head. o_o Let's hope it turns out the way I want it!

Posty postage poster post.

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

Hooooookay! Trololololol.

I'm probably being stupid, but is Acelyn the fella' whose passed out on the ground. It makes sense in my mind and the likelihood of him stumbling out of nameless-man's house, back into another homely tavern-pub-drinking environment, would make even more sense! But, I wasn't sure if that's what you were going for so I thought I'd make sure before splurging out on a long post (probably not as long as yours, 'O Queen of Words and Magic Properties). I'm officially head over heels in love with Astrid, by the by. She's adorable. And witty. And real.

I hope I'm not rusty with Acelyn. His shoes feel a little dusty. Whut whut whut, is only is only accessible to the U.S? Blasphemy! That sucks, 'cause it looks pretty damn good. Ah well, I've heard of Pandora but tend to use weird song-player sites like GrooveShark and before it was brutally massacred. Now, all of your songs in your playlists would suddenly become unavailable, so that you only have five songs working and pile of sadness. Nightmare. After that, I stopped using all radio, podcast, and music finder things. My iPod's GB is massive, but I'm always trying to fill it up with new music. Bawhbawhbahwb; I wonder what song recommendation sites are the best? Got any in mind?

I'm sloooooowly working away at it. Sometimes, I amazed myself at how much research I gotta' do to make these characters. Weird stuff for Acelyn. Like gang affiliations, Yakuza, Yakuza weapons, ethics, Japanese housing. I'm trying to figure out how he ended up back in the States. Ferrr'rizzle.

Is he going through a life crisis? :O Awwh, that sucks. I'd be like, "HEEEEEEEY. Hey. It's my time here, fool. My time. Your solos' tomorrow." My brother had the tendency to turn up his guitar amp so loud that the entire house would shake. I believe in YOU, woman!

Numnumnumnum post numnumnum.

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

BWAHAHAHA @rageface. You go there and you can listen to any radio station that plays in the US (I think any... there might be a few that you can't get... but that's whatev.) Then, you can also create your own stations. It's like Pandora. I am not partial to one or the other (save that I can get my broadway tunes on Pandora, not on Iheart. :/) They are both awesomesauce music go-to's.

And I agree about the profile. I really only changed her description and added the history... Tweaked some stuff here and there, but not really that much. o_o You can post even if his profile is half done. Whatever you prefer. :D

As far as the recording goes... >_> Little brother (by little I mean he's younger than me, not necessarily smaller) moved in last week... <_< Quietness is a rarity anymore... When I start singing, he's gotta add drumbeats or mouth-made guitar solos... He's a great musician, but not great with the beatboxing thing. -le sigh- I'll figure it out! I LIKE TO SING TOO MUCH NOT TO!

EDIT- THAR SHE BLOWS!!!!!!! post.

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

You, my dear, are way more productive than I. I just realized that I can really just icepick away at Acelyn's profile because we already know what he's like. Well, mostly, anyhow. Their relationship didn't change. The details changed a little and we're just starting on how they met and stuff, so I won't freak out and repeatedly headbutt my fail!File. Fsshuuwhhh, what's Iheartradio? Introduce me! That's destiny. Whut, whut. I'm a weirdo. Whenever I hear songs that remind me of RPGateway characters, I'm like, "YESSSSSSSSS! INSPIRATION!"

Anya Marina is so Astrid. Safetysuit will always remind me of Acelyn.

Record, m'love, record! Ladies can sing boy songs just as well.


Re: [OOC] You Know Me


I am about two or three paragraphs from having an opening for Astrid. If I continue the way I'm going, it'll be an effing book. I'm gonna put a capper on it and go ahead and post it. My slow movement is really starting to bother me!!!! So I'm going to try and be productive and GET ON IT! <3

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

OMG! That song inspired half a post for Astrid's opening. >_> The power of music, I swear... I'm pumping up Astrid's profile as well. Omg, I'm uber excited about this. UBER. SUPER UBER DUPER.

That makes me wanna say, "herp".

Edit- For Real. Listening to IheartRadio and I made a SafetySuit station just for shits&giggles. "Annie" was the first song they played. I died a little inside.

I might record a cover of that song, just because I like it. I cannot guarantee sound quality because I'm a girl that will be singing a guy song. >_> But I like a good challenge. >;D

Re: [OOC] You Know Me

Shame on me. I actually never saved Acelyn's profile. Stupid, stupid me. I usually save them all in a folder when I'm cleaning up my RPGateway character tab. So, what the heck? Oh well, I was gonna revamp it, anyway. Think positive, roight? Time for some depressing Ace music. Oh, oh, I found another band that reminds me of sassy!Astrid. Anya Marina. Check her out. Specifically: "All the Same to Me" and "Sociopath."

Specifically these lyrics: "I'm pathologically addicted to what you call a dickhead. Cheaters and liars seem to light my fire. And God I've gotta get clean. So I did… Yeah, I did. I took a bath with a sociopath, I took a bath with a sociopath." I think Ace has sociopathic tendencies. I mean, what kind of person can be a hit-man and be in their right mind? Yakuza, anyhow. I'm developing his past history, so I'll expand on his criminal past. The redemption crap. Becoming a teacher. Then, meeting Astrid after what happened to Annie. I'm kinna' excited.

[OOC] You Know Me

This is the auto-generated OOC topic for the roleplay "You Know Me"

You may edit this first post as you see fit.