Margaret Sung (WIP)

Margaret Chanel Sung

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YOU

your personal name (or alias): critter

age: twenty-three

I have been roleplaying for: several years

I would like to join because: I like to write. 

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CHARACTER

I faceclaim:

Kiko Mizuhara

I. gender identity:

Cisgender Female

I. age:

twenty-five

I. physical appearance:

5'4, 110 lbs. Margaret is hardly an intimidating figure and remarkably average in appearance. She could perhaps profit from gaining a few extra pounds to round out her angular limbs. Her feminine features are unfortunately lacking which, at this point in her life, she has long since moved past the embarrassed bra-stuffing stage of pubescent self consciousness. To put it simply she is a girl without frills, but has a natural practical grace. Her dark almond shaped eyes carry an aloof and sad sophistication even in the brightest of moods. She is slight and unassuming yet seems to carry herself with a self-reliant tenacity. 


Ii. - skin color:

Pale; during the warmer month however she bronzes well. 

Ii. - nationality and/or race:

Caucasian(English/German) / Asian (Korean)

Ii. - hair color/style:

Sleek black worn in a chin-length bob or slightly longer. She cuts it herself and does a pretty decent job at it though at times she is rather lazy. 

Ii. - eyecolor:

Very dark brown. 

Ii. - aura (how do others feel about them):

Margaret has two modes of personhood; raging bitch and sickly sweet. Depending on the hour, her mood, and perhaps the exemplification of luck alone, you could meet either side of her honeyed face. With that being said acquaintances either love or hate her manic charm. 

Generally speaking, people like her because she's pretty and has her own endearing fortitude. 

I. personality:

I kinda like it
When I make you cry
Cause I'm twisted up, I'm twisted up

Overall
Margaret is a confusing diametric patchwork of traits inherited from the bizarre people she has deemed admirable in her life. She can be kind, generous, and sweet. Margaret loves easily and isn't shy about showing affection earnestly. She is a deeply sentimental person and is prone to bouts of nostalgia. 

Quirks / mannerisms 
Chews her nails not out of habit but because she can't stand them growing past a certain length and simply cannot be arsed to clip them ; paces when she's feeling impatient or when she has to wait for anything, really ; sings to herself often, and terribly. ; has an awful sense of time and tends to be late for everything. 

Likes
Cold pepperoni pizza ; saving keepsakes ; sketching on anything and everything ; drip candles ; the spring and fall ; gangster rap ; roller blades and longboards ; outdated tech ; collecting knickknacks ; camping ; books of all kinds ; aliens ; cat naps ; horchata ; punk rock ; 

Dislikes
Throwing things away ; math ; public transit ; cars ; traffic ; overcast weather ; waking up early ; 

I. past:

Nothing gory means no glory, 

but baby please don't bore me.

Margaret was raised by wolves. 

Just kidding. She was the result of a brief affair- a seemingly wealthy Korean businessman meets pretty young white American girl whose panties were easily swayed with the prospect of marriage and never having to work another day in her depressing inner-city life. There's not much Margaret knows about her father or his family beyond a surname and alleged fractional siblings that reside oceans away. During middle school she did some pithy digging to discover nothing but the immense amount of debt her estranged family had amassed over the decades and decided that perhaps it was best that ties had been severed. On special occasions she receives a birthday card in the mail written in very poor english and a humble promissory note. Really, her Father is just a stranger whom she shares genetic code with, nothing more. However, that cannot be said for her Mother. 

She grew up like any normal little girl with her own share of negligible melodrama. A mother who drank too much and couldn't hold down a job, had too many boyfriends, and frequently uprooted her life in search of greener pastures (though she meant well). Despite this she escaped her childhood with few nicks and bruises. However, as a child Margaret was peculiar and uncomfortable in her own spindly skin. Often times nervous about the very thought of unwilling social interactions she hauled herself away in her room. She was fond of books and reptiles. At the age of eleven she adopted a yellow ball python named Lucy, one which she still owns despite many harrowing escape stories. As Margaret reached adolescence, she and her Mother fought often. Margaret developed a rebellious streak and a cagey mouth to match. She discovered a refined love for all things destructive; namely gangster rap and punk rock. Needless to say, Margaret broke free from her binding childhood shell with a sturdy boot to the ass and hardly looked back. She moved out of her Mother's home and spent a large portion of her teenage years couch surfing.

As a teenager she was difficult, moody, and made poor decision after poor decision. She dabbled in various self destructive behaviors but addiction was not in her nature and she lost interest very quickly.  She ran with boys and girls that she fell in love with far too fast, and in turn she ran away from them even faster. During her youth Margaret rarely knew what she wanted. As an adult she knows even less. 

At the age of twenty she decided she wanted to marry a Bulgarian boy named Ivan not because she was desperately in love but because he mostly put up with her nutty mood swings and took adequate care of her. She loved him but in a way that was not overwhelming. She loved him like the rain. She enjoyed his company, but if it never rained again she wouldn't particularly mind it either. 

This is what she tells herself when she finds out he's dead. She remembers shattered glass and the sound of splintered bone, the splatter of blood on a cracked windshield, and disentangling herself from a seatbelt upside down as her hands trembled and her inebriated head spun. She woke in a hospital bed with a seething migraine and dread seeping into her veins through her many IV's. 

She had been lucky, escaping with only minimal injury and minor head trauma.

I. job:

Bitter divey bartender in a divey hidey hole. 

I. clothing style:

Urban and eclectic. Sweatshirts, jeans, oversized sweaters and high-top sneakers. Skater meets hood rat. Moth bitten t-shirts from middle school that she’s too sentimental to throw away. Loud colors, tye dye, and black. She has a habit of taking the clothing of faces that flit in and out of her life as fond keepsakes. Her own comfort is imperative so generally most of her clothing is oversized, light, and convenient. In the winter time she wears many layers. During the summer very few. She wears little make up in her day to day life, however when she is working she will often paint her face in variance with her mood- mostly dark and smokey. She wears a few cheap rings that leave green bands around her digits. 

I. roleplay example:

There’s a low murmur of forlorn whispers that reverberate through the unbarred tawny architecture and the taciturn sound of anguish welling up in already bleary and bone-weary rose raw throats and eyes. They could bleed and bleed their spirits out on the hard granite floor but nothing would change the death cradle casket which encased their beloved, lulled forever into his rooted sleep, hands withered and lain tenderly across his abdomen. He would be in a suit, his best suit, or maybe one borrowed from a relative, his handsome features still like meticulously carved marble greek statue (cold, too), with eyes shut arduously at the hand of the mortician. There was something startlingly unkind about the sight of the dead, and because of this Atticus was glad to see the closed casket. It gave Ben a sense of privacy. It, however, did not quell his wayward mind, or his overwrought stomach.

He had hardly made it a foot within the nave before turning quickly on his heels. Atticus was neither fond of death nor of churches, especially in these kind of unfortunate circumstances. That, and losing ones lunch in church somehow seemed like it would be an insult and demerit to it’s holy framework. Because of this, Atticus had frantically searched through corridor and clearance for the mens room, a haven of sorts, with an impending sense of imminence borne on his shoulders. When he did finally find it(or, at least, a restroom) through the maze of sunday school hallways lined with crayola abominations, he made sure to deadlock the door before hurling into a porcelain toilet that was probably three times too small for any full grown adult.

There was of course a tiny sink to match aforementioned tiny toilet, and while Atticus washed up he had to lean down on one knee. Straightening up, his face now dripping wet, he stared at the teenager in the reflection, a foreign strange face. He looked unwell with small bursted blood vessels forming around his forehead and eyes, though barely noticeable amongst his freckled complexion. The whites of his eyes had turned a delicate shade of sleepless blush, complimented only by the deep set circles forming beneath them. Again, he leaned down, and splashed more water on his face. What he saw when he looked up again was nothing short of disturbing.

It wasn’t ethereal in nature what so ever. What he saw was Ben- but it wasn’t Ben! It couldn’t be the boy who laid out in the casket. Ben, flanking his right, standing there with his familiar arrogant simper, his self-assured demeanor that, in the reflection of the mirror, was nearly tangible. Beneath the fluorescent lights he was of course paler than usual, or perhaps he was actually indeed paler because he was dead… but no! He was dead. To the rational man, entertaining the idea that it was indeed him was absolutely ludicrous. And so, when Atticus turns to confront this ghastly sighting he confirms what he feared most- that Ben was of course not actually there, and Atticus was likely going absolutely insane. Dizzied with the hairs on his neck still standing on end, he leaves the bathroom.

When he returns, visually unkept, he finally joins his peers, wordlessly taking the remaining seat besides Eloise, fishing through his pockets for a small tin can of coveted altoids. He glances down the pew. Besides Eloise there was another girl- one whose name he couldn’t remember despite his excellent memory, so it was safe to assume that the two had never met. Behind them he can hear Alex, Ben’s girlfriend, speaking, who while they lived in the same neighborhood he was certain that she was unwitting of his existence. Then of course there was Connor, who was relatively close to being the antithesis of Atticus. Needless to say, Atticus felt a bit like a sore thumb in the bunch, but it was not an uncommon sentiment in his life.