Post by ▌jasper owens on Sept 12, 2011 21:55:49 GMT -5
jasper owens
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NAME jasper owens. no middle name. he doesn't need such fripperies.
NICKNAMES jazz, but only to a very select few thanks.
AGE twenty-two
GENDER male
HOME TOWN new york
MEMBER GROUP junior
COLLEGE thera
FACE CLAIM ed westwick
PERSONALITY it is fairly obvious to anyone who meets Jazz that he has some issues, but no one can figure them out, least of all himself. he's become so used to drowning out his true emotions that he almost doesn't have any anymore. he's a really friendly guy, but only because he has to have constant human contact or he gets scared of his own mind. he is undoubtedly at his calmest whilst looking at art works or drawing, but aside from for his school work, he's given up on art; the beauty of it it reminds him how ugly he thinks he is.
he is loyal to no one except himself, and all his friends are just around to stop him thinking about how much he hates himself. he loves a good joke, and appreciates that they distract him from his own mind.
despite all that nearly overwhelming dark crap going down in his mind, Jazz isn't all depressing all the time. when he's out and about doing things, or discussing art or politics, he feels positively radiant.
LIKES women, alcohol, parties, the beach, fluking top marks, making new friends, one night stands, not getting girls pregnant, new york, fights, being rich, drugs.
DISLIKES not having anything to wear, being hungover, getting rejected, failing at anything, being insulted, girls who think he wants anything more than a fling, falling for people, poverty.
FEARS never falling in love, failing college, being bitter.
SECRETS despite his reputation now, he hadn't slept with a woman until halfway through his first year of college, he had his heart broken by his father's twenty three year old secretary when he was sixteen, and he hasn't recovered.
HISTORY the third child born to maxwell owens and dahlia xenos, jasper grew up in a fairly relaxed environment. his arty mother believed in children ruling their own destiny, so from a young age he pretty much did whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. and what he wanted was to be like his dad, a successful business who, as far as Jazz was concerned, lived the life. he rejected his mother's philosophical teachings, and idolized his mostly absentee father.
things changed a lot when he was fourteen, though he didn't really care about his parents divorcing, or whatever. he decided without even having to consider it to shift in with his father, and then the fun really started. he was the ruler of the roost at his private boys school, running the coolest parties, getting all the girls. things just fell into place for Jazz, like life was effortless.
but then his father got a secretary, and while it was probably just a crush, Jazz fell hard for the beautiful Yelena. for six months he worshipped her, then had to watch from the altar as his father married what he believed was the only really good thing in his life. life spiraled out of control after that, and to be perfectly honest between the crazy ass nights of intoxication and the dreadful hungover days at school, he doesn't remember a lot of high school.
things got a bit better when he fluked his way to getting accepted to thera. he'd spoken greek as a child, his mother's mother tongue, and he'd been forced to keep it going through high school, though he did pretty abysmally. so it was off to thera, in santorini, for the young space cadet. he enrolled in art history and politics, and pretty much just continued to view his studies as an annoying distraction from his full time occupation; partying like a g6.
FAMILY maxwell owens, 56, banker, living. dahlia xenos, 53, full time hippie, living. america owens, 24, artist, living. paris owens, 27, model, living.
STYLE Jazz is hardly ever looking polished, but that's not to say he doesn't look damn good. he pulls off the disheveled chic look like a pro. usually he can be spotted in a plain t-shirt in either dark coloured, black, or white. his hair is always a mess of black wavy curls, and he religiously wears jeans year round.
ALIAS bry, please!
CONTACT INFORMATION gmail: brydieo@gmail.com. Pms too, just whatever.
ROLEPLAY SAMPLE Jazz opened his eyes with infinite care, slowly enough to gauge how light his surroundings were. He did not need to get blinded right now, odds were it would cause some sort of brain damage. His head was just that tender; what the hell had he been doing the night before? Well, aside from the drinking of course... He'd probably knocked it against something. Something hard. feeling around his scapl gently, eyes still closed, he sighed disappointedly at the lack of bumps.
Grumbling noisily now, he hauled himself to his feet, pulling himself up the couch he was slumped against, and gazed around his surroundings. He was in his room. Or, at least, he thought he was. It looked like his dorm, post hurricane. Clean up could definitely wait though.
He stumbled over to the fridge and yanked out the orange juice, but after a quick swig threw it back. Judging by the nausea the smell of it alone induced, he'd been drinking it last night. Milk it was then. Jazz knew better than to screw up milk for himself by drinking it mixed with alcohol. He'd actually promised himself never to go near kahlua and milk, just so he could enjoy it hungover. And he'd never once regretted it.
Next stop was the bathroom, but to get to it he had to go past his bed, and suddenly he just really couldn't be bothered. Yes, he really did want to wash his face and brush his teeth and feel a bit more alive, but sleep was suddenly seeming so inviting. As he walked towards his suddenly beautiful double bed, he had the idiot notion to glance in the mirror.
He'd never looked worse, that much was instantly obvious. His hair, which usually pulled off a grungy chic look, just looked like he hadn't washed it in weeks. And also a little like he'd been pulled through a bush backwards; what exactly had he been up to last night? Who the hell knew, all he could imagine were snapshots, polaroid memories of a crazy night. He was pretty sure he'd been enjoying himself.
But Jasper was hating himself now. Looking at his reflection was like looking at those pictures where they showed you before and after of a p addict; he was the after. The image of himself he carried in his mind was the before. Why did he do this to himself?
But before he could really get into a stew of self loathing, he looked from his mirror to his bed, stumbled over to it and collapsed, dead to the world before he even hit the mattress.
