mcrself
Magic Eight Ball
Okay so full disclosure, I'm rusty on roleplaying. I want to get back into it, though, and I feel with the right partner I can!
Fandom I've roleplayed for are Hetalia, Vocaloid, Homestuck, South Park, and Attack on Titan.
I prefer to roleplay with people older than 18 just because we'd both be adults.
I'm comfortable with most things, and I'm especially fond of roleplaying hurt/comfort and angst!
Here's an example of some of my writing from a fanfiction I've posted.
I'm willing to roleplay fandom or oc, but not crossing the two over. I also do literate roleplay, but I'm not super strict on reply length so long as you actually give me something to work with.
Anyway comment any questions below, and please let me know if I made this kind of post correctly because I'm very new here!
Fandom I've roleplayed for are Hetalia, Vocaloid, Homestuck, South Park, and Attack on Titan.
I prefer to roleplay with people older than 18 just because we'd both be adults.
I'm comfortable with most things, and I'm especially fond of roleplaying hurt/comfort and angst!
Here's an example of some of my writing from a fanfiction I've posted.
The act of filling out an application was nothing more than a formality. A lot of the current generation didn’t even have more than a basic level of knowledge or experience with using a pen, let alone writing in their respective language. Typing was much simpler, and really, unless you were being trained to be an artist or designer, the skill of holding a pen was useless to you.
Still, forms were offered at talent agencies. Some places used it as a way to assess your surface level worth as an applicant for certain classes or positions. Others, however, offered it for a false sense of self-worth. Sure, your wrist is scanned upon checking in to the building, and the guard reads your information back to you to ensure it actually is you. Regardless of this, however, writing down your personal information from memory gave you a vague sense of autonomy. For that brief moment, your identity was your own, uncirculated, unknown by the receptionist who gave you the pen that hardly worked despite its lack of use.
Usually, using the knowledge that writing was a lost art form, you could tell the class of an applicant. A lot of richer kids never see pens in their life outside of museums and history books. As you climb down the economic ladder, the ability to physically transcribe thoughts and feelings grew. Maybe that’s why a lot of artists came from the poorest parts of their hometowns. After all, decades and centuries can pass, but the aesthetic of a struggling artist never becomes old.
The training center in the heart of South Park, Colorado was busy as usual. As a certain blonde haired man found himself filling out the fifth physical form of the day, more than 5 dozen people had come through and not even acknowledged the offer to fill out their own personal information. Some of the people passing through, he recognized immediately. Bebe Stevens, the girl who spilled mashed potatoes on him every Tuesday in their shared second year of acting classes, took the cake for being the most disruptive bystander he’d had the misfortune of hearing that afternoon.
“No! I do not want to fill out a form!” she shouted, slamming perfectly soft palms onto the fake granite countertop of the receptionist desk. Rather than showing emotion at this outburst, the receptionist simply tucked away the clipboard she’d been holding and moved on with her memorized script. The outburst had been enough to silence the waiting area, and was one of the final straws for the blonde man’s ability to concentrate in such an otherwise noisy room. Quietly, he gathered the forms he’d already filled out in full and queued in line behind faces he couldn’t seem to place. Thankfully, despite how talkative the room was, only a select few people were actually in line. Bebe was at the front, and behind her were two average looking men who seemed to be in their mid 20’s. The one in front of the blonde man was clutching a form at such an angle that anyone behind him could catch a glimpse at his handwriting. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. It was perfectly legible enough for anyone to process.
The man in front of him was going for acting. Of course he was. Everyone and their catdroid was going for acting. As the line slowly moved forward, and as wrists were scanned and formality forms were filed, the man found his own thoughts slowly beginning to race with overthinking and insecurity at his own vocation choices. Everyone was registering to be considered for the next overly-simplified internet show, but here he was, applying for behind-the-scenes jobs. Jobs that no one who wanted to be considered an A-list celebrity would ever choose in their lifetime. Jobs that make your permanent record look like the script for a late 2010’s comedy movie.
Finally, it was his turn in the queue. A robotic announcement came over a speaker behind the receptionist desk, feeding basic information about him to the woman behind the glass. “McCormick?” she inquired, voice painfully evident of rigorous practice for customer satisfaction-based speech habits. He nodded, holding out his wrist toward the scanner present at the right of the receptionist’s window. A tell-tale beep meant that his information was, once again, registered.
“I’m here to file for training,” he stated simply, placing his forms on the desk and sliding them under the thin gap in the window. The receptionist eyeballed the smooth strokes of the writing on the forms before giving the blonde an incredulous look over her fake spectacles.
“Sir, you are aware that we are over-booked for acting applicants, correct?” she inquired.
“No no, I’m not applying to be an actor,” he responded quickly. “I’m looking for more… hidden jobs. If you’ll read the forms you’ll see that-”
“If you want to apply to be an understudy or anything of the like, you need to come back on the dates specified on the door,” the receptionist interrupted.
“I’m not trying to join the acting field, ma’am,” he stammered. “Nothing in that industry at all. If you’d just read the forms-”
“What economic level are you from, McCormick?” she interrupted once again. “Because your handwriting is so much neater than anyone I’ve seen in the past few days that I find it hard to believe you belong here at all.”
He felt his heart drop to his stomach, but he wasn’t expecting anything else from the interaction. The receptionist knew what his background was. Even if the way she asked the question didn’t give that simple factoid away, the time he’d put into filling out his forms did. Despite the fact that well filled out forms were a surefire giveaway that you were of low socioeconomic standing, he still felt the impulsive need to fill them out to the best of his ability. If no one would sign him for anything, he’d at least get noticed for his skill in the lost art of handwriting.
He gave himself a moment, taking a deep breath in an attempt to hold off the anger boiling inside his chest. Once he felt like he could function normally, if only for a few moments, he spoke up. His voice was calm and calculated, but not sincere. Acting classes, despite how useless they were for the fields he wanted to pursue, sure helped in his social interactions.
“Ma’am, I’m trying to train to become part of the musical field,” he said slowly, trying to piece together his racing thoughts. The woman behind the counter stared at him incredulously, her artificially purple eyes giving no sign of human emotion. Rather than respond to him, she simply gave the forms in her hand a final glance before grunting and pushing her chair away from her desk.
Kenny knew better than to get snippy with receptionists. Sure, they were the least talented of anyone in the room at any given time, but they were the only gateway to producers and trainers. Without them, your average Joe Schmoe stood no chance against media giants. So instead of pointing out how she had less talent in that moment than he had on his first day of being alive, he held his tongue and watched her reach under her desk with his forms in hand. He didn’t need to hear the mechanical whirring of a shredder to know what she was doing, he just knew from experience at this point.
“Alright sir, I’ll have my supervisor review your profile at his earliest convenience,” she said, voice devoid of any discernible emotion. “You will be notified if you’re chosen.”
That was the unspoken punctuation to this interaction. Nothing more could be said without damaging your already slim chances after that. Besides, what else could he say? ‘I want to speak with your supervisor right this instant!’ would be satisfactory to say, but demands like that died off well before the 2030s. Demanding for a supervisor nowadays was a surefire way of getting your profile completely erased from the central database, forcing you to spend what little money you have to your name to re-establish yourself. Beyond that, politeness classes were mandatory for anyone with infractions like this. How else can they force subservience, if not by policing the tone and words of average people?
Wordlessly, he made his way out of the line of similarly disadvantaged applicants and found his way out of the building. As he left, he scanned his wrist to put a note on his record that he left the training center for the umpteenth time that week, unsuccessful once again.
Still, forms were offered at talent agencies. Some places used it as a way to assess your surface level worth as an applicant for certain classes or positions. Others, however, offered it for a false sense of self-worth. Sure, your wrist is scanned upon checking in to the building, and the guard reads your information back to you to ensure it actually is you. Regardless of this, however, writing down your personal information from memory gave you a vague sense of autonomy. For that brief moment, your identity was your own, uncirculated, unknown by the receptionist who gave you the pen that hardly worked despite its lack of use.
Usually, using the knowledge that writing was a lost art form, you could tell the class of an applicant. A lot of richer kids never see pens in their life outside of museums and history books. As you climb down the economic ladder, the ability to physically transcribe thoughts and feelings grew. Maybe that’s why a lot of artists came from the poorest parts of their hometowns. After all, decades and centuries can pass, but the aesthetic of a struggling artist never becomes old.
The training center in the heart of South Park, Colorado was busy as usual. As a certain blonde haired man found himself filling out the fifth physical form of the day, more than 5 dozen people had come through and not even acknowledged the offer to fill out their own personal information. Some of the people passing through, he recognized immediately. Bebe Stevens, the girl who spilled mashed potatoes on him every Tuesday in their shared second year of acting classes, took the cake for being the most disruptive bystander he’d had the misfortune of hearing that afternoon.
“No! I do not want to fill out a form!” she shouted, slamming perfectly soft palms onto the fake granite countertop of the receptionist desk. Rather than showing emotion at this outburst, the receptionist simply tucked away the clipboard she’d been holding and moved on with her memorized script. The outburst had been enough to silence the waiting area, and was one of the final straws for the blonde man’s ability to concentrate in such an otherwise noisy room. Quietly, he gathered the forms he’d already filled out in full and queued in line behind faces he couldn’t seem to place. Thankfully, despite how talkative the room was, only a select few people were actually in line. Bebe was at the front, and behind her were two average looking men who seemed to be in their mid 20’s. The one in front of the blonde man was clutching a form at such an angle that anyone behind him could catch a glimpse at his handwriting. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. It was perfectly legible enough for anyone to process.
The man in front of him was going for acting. Of course he was. Everyone and their catdroid was going for acting. As the line slowly moved forward, and as wrists were scanned and formality forms were filed, the man found his own thoughts slowly beginning to race with overthinking and insecurity at his own vocation choices. Everyone was registering to be considered for the next overly-simplified internet show, but here he was, applying for behind-the-scenes jobs. Jobs that no one who wanted to be considered an A-list celebrity would ever choose in their lifetime. Jobs that make your permanent record look like the script for a late 2010’s comedy movie.
Finally, it was his turn in the queue. A robotic announcement came over a speaker behind the receptionist desk, feeding basic information about him to the woman behind the glass. “McCormick?” she inquired, voice painfully evident of rigorous practice for customer satisfaction-based speech habits. He nodded, holding out his wrist toward the scanner present at the right of the receptionist’s window. A tell-tale beep meant that his information was, once again, registered.
“I’m here to file for training,” he stated simply, placing his forms on the desk and sliding them under the thin gap in the window. The receptionist eyeballed the smooth strokes of the writing on the forms before giving the blonde an incredulous look over her fake spectacles.
“Sir, you are aware that we are over-booked for acting applicants, correct?” she inquired.
“No no, I’m not applying to be an actor,” he responded quickly. “I’m looking for more… hidden jobs. If you’ll read the forms you’ll see that-”
“If you want to apply to be an understudy or anything of the like, you need to come back on the dates specified on the door,” the receptionist interrupted.
“I’m not trying to join the acting field, ma’am,” he stammered. “Nothing in that industry at all. If you’d just read the forms-”
“What economic level are you from, McCormick?” she interrupted once again. “Because your handwriting is so much neater than anyone I’ve seen in the past few days that I find it hard to believe you belong here at all.”
He felt his heart drop to his stomach, but he wasn’t expecting anything else from the interaction. The receptionist knew what his background was. Even if the way she asked the question didn’t give that simple factoid away, the time he’d put into filling out his forms did. Despite the fact that well filled out forms were a surefire giveaway that you were of low socioeconomic standing, he still felt the impulsive need to fill them out to the best of his ability. If no one would sign him for anything, he’d at least get noticed for his skill in the lost art of handwriting.
He gave himself a moment, taking a deep breath in an attempt to hold off the anger boiling inside his chest. Once he felt like he could function normally, if only for a few moments, he spoke up. His voice was calm and calculated, but not sincere. Acting classes, despite how useless they were for the fields he wanted to pursue, sure helped in his social interactions.
“Ma’am, I’m trying to train to become part of the musical field,” he said slowly, trying to piece together his racing thoughts. The woman behind the counter stared at him incredulously, her artificially purple eyes giving no sign of human emotion. Rather than respond to him, she simply gave the forms in her hand a final glance before grunting and pushing her chair away from her desk.
Kenny knew better than to get snippy with receptionists. Sure, they were the least talented of anyone in the room at any given time, but they were the only gateway to producers and trainers. Without them, your average Joe Schmoe stood no chance against media giants. So instead of pointing out how she had less talent in that moment than he had on his first day of being alive, he held his tongue and watched her reach under her desk with his forms in hand. He didn’t need to hear the mechanical whirring of a shredder to know what she was doing, he just knew from experience at this point.
“Alright sir, I’ll have my supervisor review your profile at his earliest convenience,” she said, voice devoid of any discernible emotion. “You will be notified if you’re chosen.”
That was the unspoken punctuation to this interaction. Nothing more could be said without damaging your already slim chances after that. Besides, what else could he say? ‘I want to speak with your supervisor right this instant!’ would be satisfactory to say, but demands like that died off well before the 2030s. Demanding for a supervisor nowadays was a surefire way of getting your profile completely erased from the central database, forcing you to spend what little money you have to your name to re-establish yourself. Beyond that, politeness classes were mandatory for anyone with infractions like this. How else can they force subservience, if not by policing the tone and words of average people?
Wordlessly, he made his way out of the line of similarly disadvantaged applicants and found his way out of the building. As he left, he scanned his wrist to put a note on his record that he left the training center for the umpteenth time that week, unsuccessful once again.
I'm willing to roleplay fandom or oc, but not crossing the two over. I also do literate roleplay, but I'm not super strict on reply length so long as you actually give me something to work with.
Anyway comment any questions below, and please let me know if I made this kind of post correctly because I'm very new here!
