HARRIS, trevor jeffrey

[trevor jeffrey harris]

trevor jeffrey harris ,

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" you're in the city of lights, and i want to know everything. "

name: trevor, trev.

age: 20. may, 7, and 1989.

body type: Average, even though he eats a lot of junk food and doesn’t really put much of an effort in. Even if he didn’t it’s not like anyone would say anything, people are so scared to death of offending him.

distinguishing features: there’s nothing special about him other than the fact he’s blind, so no.

member title: music student, rapper new york university

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" that family of yours, i hear it's pretty interesting. "

parents' names: howard (deceased) and mary ann

siblings' names: teresa

outside family: his great grandmother who was also blind

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" i guess you could say nyc is the city of love.
so, tell me all about that love life of yours. "

sexual orientation: bisexual, it increases his chances!

significant others: in love with noelle

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" am i prying too much? no? well, then, tell me
about every skeleton in that closet of yours. "

the briefing: i always felt different, but that's because everyone has treated me like a freak for as far back as i can remember.

the secret: " She doesn’t know it, but we’re meant to be together. "

the loose ends: anything other skeletons in the closet you want to talk about? come on, we won't bite.

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" that person behind you, who are they? "

your name:ash

your age: 19

contacting: pm

secret phrase: admin edit

extras: no

roleplay sample: The alarm jolted him out of a dream, the bleeping producing a groan and feeble attempt to ignore it and go back to sleep. It had been a good, pleasant dream. Lots of action, alien invasions, light sabers, Shakira was in there somewhere but that was a pretty common dream for him. What did that say about his personality? Other than the fact he had some obsession with sci-fi and Shakira (her hips didn't lie that was for sure). He didn't really want to know.

His body ached. And his room smelled like cigarettes and air freshener. He wasn't a big fan of febreeze but it helped cover up the smell of marijuana so that was ok -- pine scented! His mother didn't really care, it wasn't like he was hiding his habit. Like he could have in the first place he was so fucked on it all the time.

Burying his head beneath his pillow had not made the horrid sound vanish. It just seemed to get louder until he had no choice but to annoyedly move to turn it off. No school today, it was a Saturday. And summer. That was what made it so hard to get up. Felt just as bad through the week however because he couldn't afford to not show up on time to work. His refusal to wake up in mornings explained his many absences from class during the school year, specifically first period for obvious reasons. He was about to enter his last year, somehow. Grade twelve. Even if he'd failed some, he'd done summer school last month so everything was coming up roses. It wasn't anything new, not that it mattered he just wanted to get his credits to graduate and then he'd be done. College/university sounded lame and he wasn't smart enough to get in. Maybe he could convince his best friends Dave and Lana to start a jazz band with him, though that would involve learning to play an instrument which was the main flaw in that plan. It sounded too complicated.

Conscious now, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing his tired eyes and trying to focus. Still needed to shower, and he was craving a cigarette. With the ringing out of his head after he'd shut the damn alarm off, he surveyed his room. It was small, one window with the blinds drawn as they always were. His clothes lay strewn across the floor, he needed to take another trip to the laundromat but that required so much effort and the nights he could be home alone he just liked lying around and doing what he wanted. Which mostly involved smoking pot and watching these nifty nature documentaries his aunt had sent him for his birthday because (he assumed) she felt guilty over their lack of communication. Three cheers for family feuding.

Flicking on his radio after he'd risen to his feet, some rock channel that played songs he didn't recognize broke the silence. He yawned, stretched his arms high above his head, and pulled his shirt off on his way out of his room, letting it join the other clothing on his way to his shower. He hated showering in the morning, because the only showers he could take for some reason had to be incredibly hot. And it just made him feel sleepy, but oh well. He couldn't go into work smelling like pot, he'd been warned for that before. They weren't very good at distinguishing his moods when he was high and when he was actually sober. He was pretty weird all the time, and that was a fact. Then again that depends on someone's definition of weird. He believed he was pretty fucking fantastic when he wanted to be. Anyone who thought otherwise didn't know fuck all.

Showered for approximately fifteen minutes. This was the usual weekend routine. Thank God he wasn't hungover. He did not need to be puking and feeling like he'd been hit by a train on top of this exhaustion. He was glad his mother was out as she often was. He didn't like being around when she was for reasons of his own. Mostly because she was, and I quote, a "druggie bitch who needs to mind her own business". So yeah. They did not have a very stable relationship, but that was okay. He was just counting the days until he could move out. If only he had enough money, he'd leave now. Once he was clean and had brushed his teeth and all that jazz he made his way back to his room, ruffling his hair with a towel. His hair, brown and shaggy, always looked tousled and like he never ran a comb through it, so he didn't take much care in looking after it. Sitting down with a bounce on his bed, he pulled on clothing (being his stupid uniform for the job from hell, he even got a nifty nametag and everything) haphazardly and without much care. He lit a cigarette after he was dressed with the lighter he kept next to his bed on the drawer. Mmm nicotine.

What was his name? Frederick. Frederick Jones. Freddy, to anyone that didn't want to be beaten. He hated being called Frederick, it made him sound like an old man or something. Plus he'd always just been called Freddy, so it just was. He'd discovered recently he was fortunate enough to share his name with none of than a Scooby Doo character. He was still vaguely pissed off about that, had no idea how he hadn't noticed before. His friends had found out too, and it was safe to say they'd never let him live it down. They were already talking about how he should bleach his hair and wear an orange neckerchief. Fuck.

Since the radio was playing a particularly annoying song, he didn't know the name of it or the artist but it grated on his nerves, he turned it off. He did a shitty job of making his bed, cigarette hanging out of his mouth and pausing only when he had to flick remnants of it into the ashtray sat on the drawer next to his carton of cigarettes, lighter, and a National Geographic magazine. This issue focused on tropical birds. Exciting! His aunt sure did send him special things, but it was partially her fault for his nature documentary obsession so he supposed he should thank her.

Feeling hungry, he finished his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray then headed out to the small crappy kitchen of the apartment. He rooted through the fridge, resisted the urge to grab a beer, instead going for water. It was amazing he was as skinny as he was considering his diet consisted primarily of Lucky Charms marshmallows and beer. Oh and anything lemon flavoured. Freddy wasn't that picky when it came to food, except for the fact he was a vegetarian. His mother was, so meat had never really been in the house so he was too. Kind of ironic considering he worked in fucking McDonalds. They were always giving him coupons for free meals there, which he'd give away to friends mostly. Unless it was for fries or coke or something, then he'd take it. How could he resist grease-soaked french fries and watered down soda?

Still, working in a place like that really put you off the food they made. He was convinced being half out of it when he worked was what helped him cope, otherwise it might have bothered him more. He tried not to go in too high, sometimes when he was feeling specifically crappy or low he'd do it anyway. That often involved him missing up orders and drinks, once he'd burned his finger on the grille but other than that he was A-okay! Ugh the people he worked with must have thought he was an idiot, but then again they were probably so involved in their own misery over working there that he was just an extra annoyance with his constant cursing and fucking things up for them. And yet he hadn't been fired. In fact the manager liked to give him double-shifts on the weekend, Freddy was convinced it was for dirt. By the end of all those hours he was not a pretty sight or someone to be messed with.

Finishing off the bottled water at record speed, he grabbed his key to the apartment, Freddy slid his sneakers on (he really needed new ones) before heading out. Didn't bother with a jacket or anything, the weather was quite warm and even if it rained that never hurt anybody. It was about a ten minute walk from his house to the hell hole, one in which he hummed a song that was stuck in his head under his breath. He was feeling a little more awake now, doubted that would last long. By the time he arrived, the sky was less bland and grey, though it still looked like it was threatening rain by the sight of the dark clouds. Not entirely concerned with that since he'd be inside for a while now, he entered the fast food building, sighing as he did so. City was going to wake up soon-- Honolulu. He was bathed in the aroma of grease and cooking food, felt a bit nauseous as he always did as he made his way to the employees only room where he'd get his shiny nametag. He prayed he wasn't going to be in charge of the drive-thru today, that was fucking stressful. Flipping burgers wasn't that great either, but he was hoping for a job that didn't require much thinking this morning.

Manager was yet to arrive. He rolled his eyes. Didn't have much respect for him, considering he'd been sat down in his less-than-stellar office quite a few times now for a talk. Which involved being threatened to straighten up or he'd be kicked out of the family. Rolling his eyes to himself at the thought, he found his way over to his crappy locker and opened it, taking out his nametag and pinning it on his shirt, and the stupid hat they made him wear. Just looking at himself decked out in this attire made him feel like shooting himself in the face. Maybe later. For now he had a job to do (which was basically, he supposed, do his part in contributing to obesity in America). He was basically the next Gandhi.

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