analeigh von laure,

analeigh von laure

a.k.a, ana
12/1/89
female
sexuality; bisexual
senior dropout.
social status here; high

• oink - orange alley kitten - 9 weeks old

interests

• cosmetology
  
• photography
  
• poetry
  
• music
  
• partying
  
• drinking
  
• chain smoking
  
• ketamine
  

"Paris was out of the question. "It's not what your parents wanted," they said. My arguments didn't sway their stone judgement, although I tried to reason by suggesting that I would be more comfortable with my distant Aunt Jolie. But as long as my father's signature was inked on the margins of his will, then I was destined to live with an old family friend. Of course, the Blake's were as Upper Class as my father had always bragged. Their mansion was separated into several wings, with one of them belonging to me. They were in their late thirties, and with Mrs. Blake being infertile, I was their dream child. Of course, I sounded good on paper. When I arrived, clad in skinny jeans, flats, six piercings and a head full of weave, they dropped their pearly jaws to the floor. It was clear to them then that I was my own person. Why else would America's most revered tycoon's daughter look like some sort of scene queen, and wearing two-dollar plastic bangles? Why else would she have a nose-ring, snakebites, and gages? Why else would she have dyed her copper red hair black and cut it herself? Why else would her ebony extensions have lime-green and neon pink streaks in it? I had smiled at their naivety; they had no idea what had just walked through their front door.

In my father's rich world of butlers, waiters and maids, I had always insisted on doing everything myself. I was a firm believer in the grass always being greener. I wanted to be a poor girl, living in a cramped apartment with a small array of shedding cats and a yappinng, inbred Chihuahua. But instead, I got marble staircases, silver trays and a room the size of Manhattan. The Blake's refused to let me live with anything less than unnecessary. I had thought that maybe my appearance and my surly attitude would discourage the Blake's, and that by nightfall I would be on a jet to Paris. But they saw me as a project, a charity case. They thought they could "fix that god-awful mess she's been turned into," as Leah Blake had so kindly put it. I was amused by their determination to try to turn me into something I'd never be--- normal.

When I was fifteen, Leah began to try to do everything to make me happy once I had made it crystal-clear to her that I wasn't changing. For my birthday, I got Fall Out Boy to play in our backyard for my party of 1000 people. I got my dream job-- modeling for TIGI Hair Products --and my own photography label. She got me my own clothing line. She got my first novel published in hard-copy. She had a gallery for my abstract art, and a public reading for my dark poetry. Her lenience toward my eccentric nature was leaving me indifferent. I didn't want her embracing it. I wanted to rebel, like any other teenager. But when I tried to run away, Leah only boarded a plane and came after me. I had forgotten that she had installed a micro-chip in me when I was sleeping. I was almost touched by Leah's near maternal intuition. But I didn't want to be her daughter. I didn't even want to be her aquaintence. I just wanted out. I wanted to go back to Paris, where I could speak without a "beautiful accent" and live with my clueless Aunt Jolie. Feeling trapped, I started back on my beloved Ketamine; love in a syringe. When Leah found my stash, she immediately had me put into lockdown. Rehab crews suddenly filled my house, and photographers were starting to snap pictures of my poor, mangled arm. That was it. I was suffocating. On the night of my eighteenth birthday, while a wild rave went on in my house, I managed to remove my microchip with a kitchen knife, sneak out, jack the family airlines and made my way to the quietest place I could find: Westwood. "

Appearance,

There's no doubting that Analeigh is certainly not like the rest of the girls you usually see. She stands out horribly, perfectly, especially in such a suburban environment like Westwood. She enjoys it, though. Besides, there are always the flip-side people who think she's the coolest thing ever. From her wild hair right down to her bright yellow ballet-flats, Ana is something you don't see everyday. Speaking of wild hair, why don't we embellish on that a little? Ana, as her own hair-stylist, has designed her hair into a perfect, edgy and jagged blend of jet-black perfection. With the help of some scissors and an electric razor, she has managed to create a just-above-shoulder-length masterpiece, with girlish bangs set above her angled eyebrows. Long, waist-length extensions give her the image of a

Persona,

Personality here. At least 200 words. Stuck? Include things like likes, dislikes, quirks, main points or personality; anger, immaturity, so on and so forth.

History,

History here. 350 word minimum. Include things like childhood memories, maybe first person flashback expiriances, teengage years, current years. Favorite memories, things that shaped them as a person, habits, family, school events. This shouldnt bee too difficult.

celeb. claim: celeb name here. YOU STILL NEED TO POST A CLAIM IN THE FACE CLAIMS AFTER BEING ACCEPTED.