Intrigued.
Fisticuffs Member
My hypocrisy knows no bounds
STATUS: I won't bring my own beer, but I will bring da muthafuckin' ruckus. 7 yrs ago
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Joined: 8 yrs ago
- Posts: 175 (0.06 / day)
- VMs: 1
-
Username history
- Fisticuffs 8 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
7 yrs ago
Current
I won't bring my own beer, but I will bring da muthafuckin' ruckus.
1
like
7 yrs ago
Fuck. It's been a while since I've been pissed off. Usually, I just get sad, so this is a welcome change of pace.
1
like
7 yrs ago
Paul Baribeau is my favorite person ever.
7 yrs ago
Wow. Woman Beating Jackass won against a guy from a completely different sport. Is he proud of that?
2
likes
7 yrs ago
"Personality, I mean that's what counts, right? That's what keeps a relationship going through the years. Like heroin, I mean heroin's got a great fucking personality."
2
likes
Bio
User has no bio, yet
Most Recent Posts
Interested.
I'm interested. Might play a consigliere. That'd be cool.
Maybe a non-Italian, whose loyalty is assured out of respect for the boss that accepted him in an industry where nationality is everything.
Maybe a non-Italian, whose loyalty is assured out of respect for the boss that accepted him in an industry where nationality is everything.
The Writer
Name: Thomas "Tommy" M. McClellan
Age: 27
Appearance: Thomas is tall and lanky. He moves ungracefully, awkwardly, as though he doesn't know what to do with himself. His skin is pale, with dark circles usually adorning the underside of his eyes. His face is all hard lines and edges. Sharp, alert, green eyes are just a bit too wide for his face. He has messy, medium-length brown hair.
Background: Thomas was born in Iowa, to a 1st generation American-Irish father and a second-generation American-Scottish mother. His parents both worked menial jobs, and wanted more for their son. They pushed him relentlessly in school and, for a while, it seemed like it was working. Then, to his parent's surprise, he dropped out of high school just before graduating, moving to Berkeley with a group of friends. They made friends with university students, and partied like punks. One by one, the group split apart. Tommy ended up in Seattle for a while, working oddjobs. He lived in Portland for a while before heading East. He met up with a friend in Boston, but they soon parted ways, and Tommy ended up Northampton.
Name: Thomas "Tommy" M. McClellan
Age: 27
Appearance: Thomas is tall and lanky. He moves ungracefully, awkwardly, as though he doesn't know what to do with himself. His skin is pale, with dark circles usually adorning the underside of his eyes. His face is all hard lines and edges. Sharp, alert, green eyes are just a bit too wide for his face. He has messy, medium-length brown hair.
Background: Thomas was born in Iowa, to a 1st generation American-Irish father and a second-generation American-Scottish mother. His parents both worked menial jobs, and wanted more for their son. They pushed him relentlessly in school and, for a while, it seemed like it was working. Then, to his parent's surprise, he dropped out of high school just before graduating, moving to Berkeley with a group of friends. They made friends with university students, and partied like punks. One by one, the group split apart. Tommy ended up in Seattle for a while, working oddjobs. He lived in Portland for a while before heading East. He met up with a friend in Boston, but they soon parted ways, and Tommy ended up Northampton.
@WanderBug posted!
He wondered how, if he'd lived his whole in a desperate bit to break from the norm, to be unpredictable, he'd ended up being both semi-normal, and predictable. His days blurred together. The same job for a year and a half, the same apartment for close to two years, the same diner for seven months, and the same regular order for six. His life had stability, order, and it was driving him mad.
God forbid, it felt like he was settling down.
He loved his coworkers, didn't mind his job, was comfortable in his dwelling, and had nothing to worry about. That worried him. He'd moved away from his hometown, dropped out of school, to be a badass anarchist who answered to no one, not a slightly pretentious Democratic Party voter who paid his taxes. Surely, his high-school self was weeping.
He blinked his already-strained eyes, staring at the dim laptop screen. A blank document. It had been blinked when he'd gotten home from bartending that morning. It was blank when he walked into the diner when it opened, and it was no less blank now. Sometimes, he'd write a few words, then immediately delete them. When he'd started writing, writer's block had seemed almost like a myth. He'd written tons of material, back then. Stories, of varying length and quality. He'd been at it for years, and had managed to publish one profitable piece of writing. It was a novel, out of print now. It hadn't even sold past the advance, which was enough for one month's rent, beer, and cigarettes.
"Why do I only have existential crises when I'm sober?" He mumbled to himself. He groaned, and closed the laptop in frustration. He rubbed his temples, and looked down at himself. If he were seventeen, he might've looked trendy and counterculture. Faded jeans, a near-threadbare Streetlight Manifesto t-shirt, and a three-year-old pair of skate shoes. He didn't even know how to skateboard.
He packed up his things and walked to the counter.
"Check, please?" He asked, quite obviously comfortable with the waitress he was speaking to. She was older, older than him at least. Grey haired, rail-thin.
"Aw, hon, leaving so soon?" She smiled at him. He sighed.
"Yeah. I've got to get some sleep." He said, accidentally yawning for effect. She nodded, and walked off to get his check. He noticed, then, the girl he was standing next to. He'd never seen her around. Not at the bar, not at the diner, not on the street. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about her, but after his previous lamentations, it seemed self-defeating to pass up a possibly interesting conversation with a possibly interesting person.
"Yo." He said, holding out his hand. "You're not from around here, are you?" He smiled a little. "I like to think I've got a pretty good handle of the patrons here, and you're not a regular, far as I can tell." He cleared his throat. "I'm Thomas. Thomas McClellan."
God forbid, it felt like he was settling down.
He loved his coworkers, didn't mind his job, was comfortable in his dwelling, and had nothing to worry about. That worried him. He'd moved away from his hometown, dropped out of school, to be a badass anarchist who answered to no one, not a slightly pretentious Democratic Party voter who paid his taxes. Surely, his high-school self was weeping.
He blinked his already-strained eyes, staring at the dim laptop screen. A blank document. It had been blinked when he'd gotten home from bartending that morning. It was blank when he walked into the diner when it opened, and it was no less blank now. Sometimes, he'd write a few words, then immediately delete them. When he'd started writing, writer's block had seemed almost like a myth. He'd written tons of material, back then. Stories, of varying length and quality. He'd been at it for years, and had managed to publish one profitable piece of writing. It was a novel, out of print now. It hadn't even sold past the advance, which was enough for one month's rent, beer, and cigarettes.
"Why do I only have existential crises when I'm sober?" He mumbled to himself. He groaned, and closed the laptop in frustration. He rubbed his temples, and looked down at himself. If he were seventeen, he might've looked trendy and counterculture. Faded jeans, a near-threadbare Streetlight Manifesto t-shirt, and a three-year-old pair of skate shoes. He didn't even know how to skateboard.
He packed up his things and walked to the counter.
"Check, please?" He asked, quite obviously comfortable with the waitress he was speaking to. She was older, older than him at least. Grey haired, rail-thin.
"Aw, hon, leaving so soon?" She smiled at him. He sighed.
"Yeah. I've got to get some sleep." He said, accidentally yawning for effect. She nodded, and walked off to get his check. He noticed, then, the girl he was standing next to. He'd never seen her around. Not at the bar, not at the diner, not on the street. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about her, but after his previous lamentations, it seemed self-defeating to pass up a possibly interesting conversation with a possibly interesting person.
"Yo." He said, holding out his hand. "You're not from around here, are you?" He smiled a little. "I like to think I've got a pretty good handle of the patrons here, and you're not a regular, far as I can tell." He cleared his throat. "I'm Thomas. Thomas McClellan."
@WanderBug Would you like me to get a character sheet up, as well? Or should I start right in on my post?
@WanderBug Right on! Like the Mumford and Sons, I will wait.
Ooh. Checking in.
© 2007-2024