the name is veronica. don't wear it out.
in my head i would play our conversations over and over 'til they felt like hallucinations; you know me - i love to lose my mind.
Hey, I don’t even mind, I’ve got Este to fulfill my needs and no one else. But let’s keep that pussy from getting wet, shall we? I’ll continue doing what I do.
Nickname(s): Ronnie, Ron (for the particularly brave)
Reason for Name: I suspect my parents were aiming for class.
Birthday: March 29, 1993
Age: 17
Gender: Female (the rumors are true!)
Place of Birth: Chicago, IL
Places lived since: this stupid town
Parents’ names, backgrounds, occupations: Leila and Mitch, bless their boring souls. They started off middle class and have essentially remained there - well, maybe we've inched a little further up. They're both professors at Illinois State, which, again - fucking boring.
Number and names of siblings: Not applicable. No wonder I had to find ways to entertain myself.
Relationship with family (close? estranged?): Nonexistent.
Happiest memory: I guess it would be that one time my parents actually exhibited effort and took me to Six Flags. Spent the whole day there, actually. Things were back to normal and they disappeared by the next morning. That's probably why I never remember Six Flags until someone brings it up.
Childhood trauma: Do absentee parents fill in this bubble? I think I've made my point already.
PHYSICAL
Height: 5'1"
Weight: 130-ish, I guess.
Build: Scrawny by all counts to the rest of the world, but I've definitely been skinnier.
Nationality: Altogether ambiguous. But, more succinctly, Filipino and various kinds of Pacific Islander.
Disabilites: Aloofness.
Complexion: Super bright, obviously. The sun just shines off of my face, doesn't it?
Face Shape: Heart, I guess?
Distinguishing Facial Features: Apparently I have really interesting lips, if all of the compliments are to be believed. That probably means the rest of my face is hideous, right?
Hair Colour: Dark brown.
Usual Hair Style: Loose and messy. I really should take a comb to this tattered mess.
Eye Colour: Brown. How unoriginal.
Glasses? Contacts?: None of the above.
Style of dress/typical outfit(s): Whatever is in my closet instead of the hamper - and it's probably super wrinkled to boot. I'm working on this. I'm aiming to look like I take showers this time around.
Typical Style of Shoes: My trusty Docs.
Health: I plead the fifth.
Grooming: I do shower everyday, contrary to popular belief. Nail care is not my friend, but waxing is kinda essential, don't you think? And if I get up early enough, I add some eyeliner to the illustrious cherry lip balm I paint my face with.
Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: I used to have tattoos. They were all stupid anyway. I have a ring with my first initial etched into it, nose and belly button piercings...
Accent?: American?
Unique mannerisms/physical habits: Always restless, impossible to keep focused. I'm fucking working on it.
Athletic: Absolutely not. I might make a good lacrosse player...
INTELLECT
Level of Education: Apparently I need to get my high school diploma all over again.
Level of Self-Esteem: Oh, super high. A+. Gold star for miss Veronica Monroe.
Gifts/Talents: Apparently I'm a decent painter.
Shortcomings: Everything else.
Style of Speech: Contrary to popular belief (yet again), I speak properly.
"Left brain" or "right brain" thinker?: Right brain, I guess?
Artistic?: I try to be.
Mathematical: That's a big fat no.
Makes Decision Based Mostly on Emotions, or on Logic?: What the fuck is logic?
Neurosis: My (original) seventeen year old disposition.
Life Philosophy: Try not to fuck it up.
Religious Stances: Religion is fucking stupid. I'll add a "goddammit" for good measure.
Cautious or Daring?: Not even sure anymore.
Most Sensitive About/Vulnerable to: The human race.
Optimist or Pessimist?: Always, always realism.
Extrovert or Introvert?: Is it possible to be neither?
Level of Comfort with Technology: I'm seventeen. What do you think?
RELATIONSHIPS
Current Martial/Relationship Status: Perpetually single.
Sexual Orientation: I don't discriminate.
Past Relationships: No serious ones.
Level of Sexual Experience: Do you seriously want to know the answer to this question?
Story of First Kiss: I was eleven. Her name was Rachel. It was a sleepover and I had nothing better to do.
Story of Loss of Virginity: It was uneventful and that's all you need to know.
A Social Person?: No one really knows who I am - which I'm sure sounds stereotypically teenage.
Most Comfortable Around: Probably Logan.
How Does She Think Others Perceive Her?: Head in the clouds, never quite touching the ground.
How Do Others Actually Perceive Her?: More of the same. FUCKING WORKING ON IT.
SECRETS
Phobias: Dying.
Life Goals: Not dying.
Dreams: Still not dying. Making something of myself.
Greatest Fears: Fucking dying, alright?
Most Ashamed of: Too much to count or recollect.
Most Embarrassing Thing Ever to Happen to Her: I'm not easily embarrassed.
Compulsions: Being an idiot.
Obsessions: Still being an idiot.
Secret Hobbies: Working towards not being an idiot.
Secret Skills: I don't think I have any.
Past Sexual Transgressions: Let's...not.
Crimes Committed: Plenty - please, you all know - and never caught.
What She Most Wants to Change About Her Current Life: Pretty much everything.
What She Most Wants to Change About Her Physical Appearance: There's no saving this mug, darlings.
DETAILS/QUIRKS
Daily Routine: Wake up, get dressed go to school, eat, shit, piss, pretend to be a functioning member of society, maybe do my homework, go to sleep (sometimes).
Night Owl or Early Bird?: Fuck mornings.
Light or Heavy Sleeper?: I've probably slept through earthquakes.
Favourite Food: I like...tacos?
Least Favourite Food: Anything green and vegetable-y.
Favourite Book: Brief Interviews with Hideous Men. (Gasp! She reads?)
Least Favourite Book: Pride & Prejudice should be burned in the town square.
Favourite Movie: The Wizard of Oz.
Least Favourite Movie: I don't know, Super Mario Bros? Who actively thinks about this?
Favourite Song: Impossible to narrow down.
Least Favourite Song: Fuck. The. Disney. Channel.
Coffee or Tea?: Oh, coffee. I'm not thirty-five.
Crunchy or Smooth Peanut Butter: Crunchy peanut butter is only consumed by the demons of this world.
Typer of Car She Drives: I drive a junker of a Toyota. It's my baby. Call him Leroy.
Lefty or Righty?: Righty.
Favourite Colour: An off sort of blue - like almost a perfect sky, but...not.
Cusser?: Always. Always.
Smoker? Drinker? Drug-User?: ...Sure.
Biggest Regret: I don't want to remember.
Pets?: Parents never let me have any. Now I have a little mutt - and a best friend! Lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely...
Receiving an instant reminder of all of her past sins should have deterred her enough - and yet, Veronica hustled through the bleachers in search of an empty with the weight of her backpack on her shoulders. The bag, of course, contained the key to her undoing on this particular evening, if the note she got a hold of was to be believed. She wasn't entirely sure what compelled her to bring the drugs along.
Consciously, she understood that repeating history would bring: nearly the promise of the same life she'd already lived in all its unpleasantries. If there was anything this visit to the past bought her, it was a few more inches from death - and if there was anything she knew now that she was among kids who very well could have been her closest friends, she desperately, desperately did not wish to die.
Amidst the never-ending bellows of her classmates, most of them well beyond the parameters of sobriety, she subtly scooted her bag off of her shoulder, zipping its front pocket open and rustling through its contents. Once she felt the plastic baggie press into her palm, she instigated a vicegrip, her eyes squeezing shut.
She remembered. All of it. And even with the migraines, the nausea, the sickness that bubbled at her core, she had to believe that she could defeat it. It was the silly throes of withdrawal, nothing more - and this time she would survive rather than satiate it. She'd known illness, real illness, and it simply felt much worse than this ever could.
So, container still pressed into her palm, she removed her closed fist from her bag's pocket and allowed her arm to discreetly hang below the bleachers until she thought it wise to release her hold. And just like that, the cause of the night's unraveling disappeared. In an instant, she raised her hand and waved it wildly as she registered a face that she recognized among the students clamoring for seats. "Hey! There's space right here."
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