Appearance: ._.
Name: Godafrid Pompilius
Age: 57
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 210
Occupation: "Retired"
Personality: Old and bitter, Godafrid thinks in a very cynical matter. Rather done with the world, after laying bare the hand he was dealt. Being said, he has a good degree of tenacity, a trait developed after years suffered in vain. A short fuse, Godafrid has the tendency to snap on people, especially in his alcohol induced fits, which happen more often than his kidney would like
Bio: To sum up a life in words would be a folly task. Who's to say my father leaving, my mother and me, attributes to this distrustful disposition? Or the ultimate resentment for that whore, whom taught not of love, could be anything but fated? They say with foresight we have choice, yet in hindsight, the second coming of our memories is preordained. For this at least, I can get behind; history will repeat itself, except leaving instead of the longful nostalgia of our memories, an all-consuming abomination.
Cliche as it is, I aimed to lock my heart away, to avoid the pain of reality. However, at one point in my life, I believed it might be possible for ME to be the protagonist of some overarching story. I met a girl. She found my heart, and I found her. Boy meets girl. Girl and boy have sex. Boy and girl fall into the abysmal hell known only as "love". They get married. Boy works to pay the bills, an insurmountable heap. With her pregnant, I too had to prepare myself for this new life.
Entranced by the idea of parenthood, I joined a support group to overcome my alcoholism. Apparently it was an uncontrollable virus. I "conquered" it for her; for love. However, unlike optimistic brats like to think, love conquers nothing; it simply leaves a sheet over the problems. My sheet, it would seem, was a piss stained tattered mess, unsuitable to be looked upon.
The day came that she was to give birth. Contractions started, and to the hospital, we rushed. Love would conquer this pain. We would finally start a family together, at long last. The baby would come, and through her twisted face of agony, I saw some kind of beauty. Beauty well wasted, a thought unperishable at the time, as the rot already stunk so terribly, a nostalgic aroma. The baby was delivered, but not a single cry was heard.
Born without breath, the imp probably rotted away in a dumpster somewhere, something we might just have in common. My debilitating disease returned, as I was left without this "love", which contained it before. I hate her so much. She took the life of what was mine, and managed to even take this thought from me. This whore of a woman had been sleeping with other men, so the stillborn baby was not even my own. For the better, as rot it would, either way.
It would seem the heartless bitch decided to leave me too, further tormenting me even in her last breath. Hung in the apartment, the note she left horrifies me to this day. I had to leave, so leave I did.
I live alone now, on the abysmally small pension, in a suffocating box of an apartment. The miasmic repetition of life is warded away by my time spent on the streets. Drinking, smoking, or just watching the time slip by. Who's to say that my father leaving started all of this? I would go so far as to to gouge my own eyes and cut my ears off, if it meant missing the toxic life of my childhood. I wish I was the one lucky enough to rot. However, sometimes I miss other people. What was it like being with other people? Not the one's I would sooner murder, than conversate with. No, the people who I wish I could become on of. Perhaps I shall die by the time this happens.
Other:
- Drinking, smoking whoot whoot!
- Smoking is bad for your lungs! *oh no*
- Old people are old!
Name: Godafrid Pompilius
Age: 57
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 210
Occupation: "Retired"
Personality: Old and bitter, Godafrid thinks in a very cynical matter. Rather done with the world, after laying bare the hand he was dealt. Being said, he has a good degree of tenacity, a trait developed after years suffered in vain. A short fuse, Godafrid has the tendency to snap on people, especially in his alcohol induced fits, which happen more often than his kidney would like
Bio: To sum up a life in words would be a folly task. Who's to say my father leaving, my mother and me, attributes to this distrustful disposition? Or the ultimate resentment for that whore, whom taught not of love, could be anything but fated? They say with foresight we have choice, yet in hindsight, the second coming of our memories is preordained. For this at least, I can get behind; history will repeat itself, except leaving instead of the longful nostalgia of our memories, an all-consuming abomination.
Cliche as it is, I aimed to lock my heart away, to avoid the pain of reality. However, at one point in my life, I believed it might be possible for ME to be the protagonist of some overarching story. I met a girl. She found my heart, and I found her. Boy meets girl. Girl and boy have sex. Boy and girl fall into the abysmal hell known only as "love". They get married. Boy works to pay the bills, an insurmountable heap. With her pregnant, I too had to prepare myself for this new life.
Entranced by the idea of parenthood, I joined a support group to overcome my alcoholism. Apparently it was an uncontrollable virus. I "conquered" it for her; for love. However, unlike optimistic brats like to think, love conquers nothing; it simply leaves a sheet over the problems. My sheet, it would seem, was a piss stained tattered mess, unsuitable to be looked upon.
The day came that she was to give birth. Contractions started, and to the hospital, we rushed. Love would conquer this pain. We would finally start a family together, at long last. The baby would come, and through her twisted face of agony, I saw some kind of beauty. Beauty well wasted, a thought unperishable at the time, as the rot already stunk so terribly, a nostalgic aroma. The baby was delivered, but not a single cry was heard.
Born without breath, the imp probably rotted away in a dumpster somewhere, something we might just have in common. My debilitating disease returned, as I was left without this "love", which contained it before. I hate her so much. She took the life of what was mine, and managed to even take this thought from me. This whore of a woman had been sleeping with other men, so the stillborn baby was not even my own. For the better, as rot it would, either way.
It would seem the heartless bitch decided to leave me too, further tormenting me even in her last breath. Hung in the apartment, the note she left horrifies me to this day. I had to leave, so leave I did.
I live alone now, on the abysmally small pension, in a suffocating box of an apartment. The miasmic repetition of life is warded away by my time spent on the streets. Drinking, smoking, or just watching the time slip by. Who's to say that my father leaving started all of this? I would go so far as to to gouge my own eyes and cut my ears off, if it meant missing the toxic life of my childhood. I wish I was the one lucky enough to rot. However, sometimes I miss other people. What was it like being with other people? Not the one's I would sooner murder, than conversate with. No, the people who I wish I could become on of. Perhaps I shall die by the time this happens.
Other:
- Drinking, smoking whoot whoot!
- Smoking is bad for your lungs! *oh no*
- Old people are old!
