Post by RYANNE SULLIVAN on Jul 20, 2012 23:09:34 GMT -5
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 500px; -moz-border-radius: 20px 0px 20px 0px; border-radius:20px 0px 20px 0px; padding: 10px; border: #000000 solid 0px; ] stuck in this daydream. [style=font-family: helvetica; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 6px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align: center;]YOUR ALIAS HERE FULL NAME: ryanne erin sullivan ALIAS: firecracker , angel , rya , anne, ry DATE OF BIRTH: 31.10.1992 AGE: 21 OCCUPATION: bartender/part-time student SEXUALITY: straight PLAY BY: anne marie van dijk UNIVERSITY [style=background-color: #CAD1CE; border: 10px solid #CAD1CE; font-family: georgia; letter-spacing: 10px; color: #7A908E; text-align: center;]all about me ›› oh yea, can’t you tell that i am thrilled to be here? anyway, really? i have to talk about myself. ugh, i hate doing that. can’t you just leave me alone and admire from afar to see what i am all about?....no?...fine. if you couldn’t tell, most of the things that come out of my mouth is pure sarcasm. dry usually and unenthusiastic. it’s not my honest intention, i guess i just, have this gift of words. some people call me a word wizard because i word things differently sometimes. i might even throw a few Gaelic words in there to throw people off. it’s so much fun to watch them scratch their head in a confused fashion. oh yea that’s another thing, i’m pure irish. my accent is still kind of present but i also Americanized it since i moved here when i was 19. i know you are wondering how irish is a piece of personality but you said tell a little about me, so that’s pretty much me. i’m irish. people say that i look just like a perfect mix of my parents. but i don’t see it, i think i got my mother’s looks but nothing from my dad, maybe except his wisdom. but even the whole religion thing didn’t rub off on me…but i don’t talk about that anymore. anyway, i am not the stereotypical irish though, i don’t drink till i hit table…though it does take a lot to get me even close to the category of buzzed. i can handle my liquor pretty damn well. however, i will admit that the irish stereotype of belligerent does fit me pretty well. i can be loud, argumentative, aggressive…but that depends on what is said and how much it affects me. [/style]i guess i should explain my personality a little better. i guess i will categorize it. okay so i’ve done not a drunk, sarcastic, irish…what else. oh, i’m loyal. not like a dog-following-master loyal but i will stick beside someone if they have the label of friend or family. i will stand up to, beat up, yell at, kill….possibly…anyone that hurts my friends. physically or emotionally. my family isn’t here, they are all back in Ireland but i still feel even more passionate about defending them than anyone, in light of the events of my past. my family, my past, the reason i am in the united states is a touchy subject for me, so don’t bother asking me about it because i honestly won’t tell you. I am a closed off person, not shy at all, but i won’t get into details about my life unless i trust you with my life. which i don’t trust anyone with my life, so if you couldn’t tell, no one really knows about my past except i was born and raised in Ireland and came here for school. It’s not a complete lie…but it’s not completely the truth either. cynical. that’s a good word to describe me too. i guess i have just been through so much in my life that has caused to have a negative attitude towards the world. usually, i have to be pointed towards the good in a situation to see it, otherwise i can make a list a mile long of all the bad. i guess this could be where my deep love of sarcasm comes from but honestly, i can’t help it. the whole cynical part of me is there for good reason, it’s a defense. i keep myself from being too happy so when it all goes to hell, like is usually does, i won’t be shocked or surprised or sad. i just pick up and move on with my life again. it’s a pretty simple concept, and a really easy routine to do now. klutz. that is the other word. despite my confidence, which borderlines arrogance sometimes, i trip a lot. i drop things. i bump into people. i once made a whole line to the bus fall because of my amazing coordination skills. so yea, if you see me, don’t surprised if i smack into a poll waving to you or..trip on air because i’m just that fucking skilled. oh yea, another thing, i shamelessly curse. i really don’t give a rat’s ass who is around me because it’s my mouth, my words and usually people are like “OMG you cursed!?” and act all surprised because apparently it’s not lady like. well fuck them. and fuck that. i pick my own words and i have a mind of my own and i don’t need anyone dictating to me. if you couldn’t tell the omg was all sarcasm again, like valley girl talk. so much fun to make fun of them. yea, i judge. sorry to say it, i hate when people judge me but i will judge like no other. first impressions for me are everything, if you mess it up—i have a predetermined idea about you. sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad. annoyance. yes, everyone has these. everyone annoys me in the beginning. i usually meet someone because i roll my eyes at them and then we become the best of friends. it’s confusing but it seems this where people label me a bitch because i have a lot of trigger points that if someone presses, i’m pissed off in a matter of seconds. it’s really bad. especially with my temper. ick, i have a bad temper. i really don’t know where i got it from, maybe it’s the hot irish blood in me, but i get mad. and when i get mad, it’s scary. i throw words out like they are knives and i don’t care who i cut or kill in the process. i don’t know if i could actually kill, but anyway, my anger gets the better of me sometimes and it’s really not pretty. if it’s a guy, i won’t hesitate to throw a punch if you piss me off too much but for girls, i just make them cry or make them leave. it’s really easy to make a californian girl cry. i know that’s cruel, but that’s what they get for poking the irish girl with a stick. addict. yes, i’m an addict. not to drugs or alcohol you dipshits. coffee. i am addicted to coffee. you won’t find me without a coffee cup in my hand and i think i have drank so much coffee that caffeine doesn’t affect me anymore. amazingly enough, my teeth are still white and i have yet to have a heart attack. i used to get so hyper off coffee, and by the way, it’s all thanks to my dad. it’s also why my words, thoughts and sometimes actions seem a little scatter brained. the caffeine might not affect me physically but i think it does something to my brain. i will ramble off topic, as if you couldn’t tell during this lovely conversation, because i lose my train of thought. once i get my thoughts together, i’ll return back to what i was originally saying. like now for instance. romance? HA. there is not a guy out there that can handle me. i’m quick-witted, opinionated, sarcastic, cycnical, what fucking guy..oh and i curse. what fucking guy would even want that? hell, i wouldn’t want a guy who couldn’t accept me for me. oh yea, i’m all for gays and gay pride but i don’t follow suit. i only find males to be attractive though i have been known to comment on a girl if she is pretty. comes from the whole “blunt” aspect of me. we’ll talk about that later. anyway, yea if a guy can’t handle me, i don’t want him anyway and that’s pretty much it. i guess blunt is the next and probably last word to describe me. yea, i don’t sugarcoat shit. i’m an honest girl, yes i tell what lies, so when i mean honest, i mean about what i think about you. if i think you’re cute, then i’ll tell you or if i think you are a bitch, i won’t hesitate to let you know. it’s really gotten me the label of “mega bitch” but like i really care. i feel that if you want my opinion, then you are going to get it—full-force. if you don’t like it, then you shouldn’t have asked me about it. it’s as simple as that. and if you didn’t ask for it, then don’t listen to it. i’m okay with being ignored, it doesn’t hurt my feelings at all. so yea, that’s me. i am so much more than that. like i can be friendly and sweet, when i want to be. but there are times that i am not. i have good days and bad days and i have one particular dark day. but yea, again, not getting it that. as you can tell, all of my traits return back to cynical. they are all traits that are rude or frowned upon in society, i guess i have no real good traits but i am a very negative person sometimes, and my personality shows through that. maybe, just maybe, there is someone that can pull me out of the dark days. but i highly doubt it. what the fuck did i just say? does no one listen? i don’t want about my history. isn’t living in Ireland until 18 good enough? ...no…seriously?...requirement!?..FUCK. okay. fine. i swear, if you tell anyone this..i’ll…i’ll..kick your ass. okay?....okay..here we go.. so, my mother is named allegra. unique right? yea not really, there were 4 of them in my town. i have a little sister named madison, my parents decided to go more european styled for her name, me, i got fucking ryanne. now that’s unique. anyway, so in my town my family, being the Collins, were like celebrities. why you might ask, or you are asking.?...because of the lovely religion of Catholicism. and guess who was the only priest in our town. yea, my father. anyway, he was the grand old priest at the family church and when i say family church, i mean, we owned it and it was passed down. not anymore, my father…and my leaving kind of broke that chain. also the fact that my father never had a son. like a give a shit about that church anyway, it’s fucking tainted or cursed. anyway, so yea, my family was really known. we were constantly being invited over for dinners and for lunches and parties and all these grand things. madison sucked it up like it was jello on table and she didn’t have a spoon. me? yea no, i really didn’t enjoy the fame at all. anyway, so my father was an amazing priest, apparently. i went to his sermons, actually i was obligated to go, and i would sit there and twiddle my thumbs or read the bible and find grammar mistakes and stuff like that. i guess i wasn’t exactly the perfect daughter but i think i was my dad’s favorite. i was closest to him out of the whole family. my mother tried to hand feed me, sorry, force everything down my throat from proper etiquette to the religion that she and my dear father worshipped. man, he’s probably turning over in his gra…nevermind. anyway, so yes, i wasn’t the best priest’s daughter but i think my father appreciated tha ta little more than he did with his daunting little younger daughter. my father taught me things my mother wouldn’t. i learned about the stars where my dad would take me to the hill behind the house and he would lay in the grass with me and tell me stories. him and i were jokers, and he left me have my first cup of coffee when i was fourteen, been hooked ever since. basically, i had a kingdom. it was mine, it wasn’t anything spectacular but it was mine. i love Ireland with my heart and soul, and i never in a million years thought i would leave. until…that night. this is something, i don’t tell anyone. they see the scar on my shoulder and i say i ran into a screw. but it’s actually a bullethole. so yea, um…my dad is dead because of that night. shot, point blank in the head. i am still trying to uncover the answer, but i figured out some of it. my father was seeing this woman at confessions and she apparently, being the brilliant bitch she was, confessed to things her husband did. i haven’t found out the husband’s name, or the woman’s last name but i will. believe me, i will. i would die for the answers to why my father isn’t with me….fuck, now i’m tearing up. thanks a lot fr making me tell. i’m not even finished yet and the waterworks are starting. right so yea,..um, this woman ended up spilling things like murder, rape, conspiracy theories and shit like that to my father. well, you can guess it…husband found out and put a hit out on my father. oh did i mention the guy was part of the irish mob? yea well he was. how did i come into play with this? oh boy. okay, my mother yelled at me for like 20 minutes to go get my father for dinner. see, he worked sometimes and one of us would always have to go fetch him for dinner. i was glad it was me, and not my mom or my little sister, i don’t know..if they could have survived, or what the outcome would have been. i almost made my little sister go, that guilt still eats me up. back to the story, so i kind of took my sweet time getting to the church, it was a little lighter out and the forest, let alone the town wasn’t a scary place at all. it was the shortest way to the church from my house without going into town and i was in no mood to deal with anyone in my town. so i got to the church and called for my dad, usually he appeared, trying to scare whoever was sent to fetch him. but he didn’t. i thought it was odd so being the smarty i was, i went further into the church. my dad came running out from that secret little backroom and mouthed the words “hide” to me. i didn’t know what to do, so i hid under the church pews. i saw more feet. two pairs to be exact, yelling things like “what did she tell you!?” and “we know you have a family”. i didn’t know what to do, but i knew i had to help my dad. no i didn’t play hero…i probably should have. another piece of guilt that eats me up. i remember my dad screaming for his life, and how much of a sin it was to kill and how his family needed him. this would be the first and last time that i had cried. but i couldn’t help it, i heard that gun cock and i screamed for bloody murder. i remember it echoing through the pews, and the next thing i saw was my dad. i was still hidden but i’m sure that the scream gave it away. his eyes met mine, the blood poured out of his head, and i was frozen as i watched the light leave his eyes. a chill brushed through me, and i know it’s horrible but all i could of was how ironic it was he died in a church. it’s the strangest thing, i know i should have been thinking about so much more but i think i went into shock or something. i don’t know but i was found by the two guys. and the strangest thing was, i wasn’t afraid. another strange thing, they didn’t look that much older than me. i remember spatting words that i probably shouldn’t have but i did. i told them how much they would regret this and the guy holding my arms behind my back laughed, until i kicked them both. they probably won’t be allowed to have kids. but i got loose. i know i should have ran to my dad, but i knew he was gone and i needed to save myself and get someone to help me because a gun doesn’t equal my foot, or my fist. i didn’t get very far though. this is where my scar comes into play. bullet ripped through my shoulder with the most intense pain that i ever felt. i thought i was dead. i knew my dad was, but i fought so hard to stay alive and i heard their laughter. their cruel laugh like it was a game and i was badly wanted to kill them myself, but i couldn’t move. i could feel the blood, hell i could see it, but i blacked out. i don’t know what happened, or what scared them off but i woke up in the hospital almost a week later. my mom looked like hell laying her head on the bed and crying about not wanting to lose her daughter. i guess she was praying. during that whole ordeal, i didn’t pray once. i didn’t ask for forgiveness, i didn’t think of g-d at that moment. maybe i should have, maybe that would have spared my father. maybe my acts weren’t enough. my sister was the first one to notice that my eyes were open and i was somewhat conscious and able to speak. my mom was too busy talking to g-d, but my sister hugged me so tightly, giving my shoulder a nice shove and a beautiful scream to be heard throughout the hospital. hell, throughout Ireland probably. anyway, i went through the basic physical therapy for my arm and it’s pretty much fully functional, the scar burns sometimes. i think that happens when i think back to that day, but from that moment on, all i thought about was getting out of Ireland. i was only 17 then though. i wasn’t allowed without my now, only parent’s permission and she wasn’t about to let me go so fast. i…i didn’t attend his funeral. i regret that too this day. i really, really do. but i couldn’t face the town and my family and…just him. i’m sure he’ll never forgive me for it but i just couldn’t. looking back now, i probably still couldn’t. but, i wasn’t strong enough. not physically, but emotionally. my mother was a mess, her and my dad were so in love that people envied it and my little sister wasn’t in the best shape either at 14. but, bottom line, i didn’t go. people ask why and how dare i but to relive that moment in my head was hard enough, i didn’t want it to be true. by not going, it wasn’t. after that, things in Ireland weren’t…the same. i didn’t go to church and i haven’t since. i refused to go back into that murderous, tainted, cursed place. and i haven’t been into anything religious based since that night. anyway, Ireland just wasn’t Ireland without my dad and i closed off. i went to high school of course and i finished it, alone. i didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me and i turned from the old fashioned ryanne into this person before you. when i got the chance to leave, i did. i took it as soon as i got the acceptance letter in the mail and here i am. i know that story is…tragic, i guess but people have worse. much worse. abuse, raped, stabbed, i was just shot…no biggie anymore. it was then. i got cards reading bullshit things like “i can’t believe you were so brave” and “bless you” and all i thought was how stupid those townspeople sounded. i wasn’t brave. brave would have been not hiding and going to get his aid. but no, i let him get shot in the head. i blame myself. and no one else can change my mind about it. so yea, the dazzling woman standing before you with a knife for a tongue and a good right hook is the product of that story. i’ve been here for a few years, like three to be exactly. i’m twenty-one now. i use my father’s wisdom when i can but nothing my mother taught me. i still thinks she hates me for leaving, sorry, for “abandoning” them in their time of need. but i couldn’t live there. i couldn’t go anywhere without thinking of my father and it hurt. it killed actually. it was a burning sensation in my chest and i knew i had to leave. so a year after the incident, i did leave. and here i am. that is what my darkest day is, when i’m the worst person in the world to anyone because i beat myself up that day and project my anger onto others. but now i am a bartender part-time, i go to college full time, a sociology/psychology major and i just want to forget. i want answers. i want to know the truth. i’d kill to know the answer to my questions of why. why him? but i know it won’t be answered, but that doesn’t mean i won’t stop searching for the answer. |
[/center]
