Jaqueline 'Jax' Creedy // John Constantine (DC) (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} jaxcreedy) wrote,@ 2009-02-14 14:53:00 |
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Name: DJ Voodoo Jax, Jax to my crew. Jacqueline Marianne Creedy, on the driver's license. The real one, at least. Reincarnation: I'm John Fucking Constantine, bitch. Which, on reflection, really should've been his whole name. Bitch and all. Age: 24. Unless you're counting the various self-inflicted poisons and their effects, in which case I'm probably a lot closer to 'dead' than that. Sexuality: Dykeadelic. Guys are too much work. Alignment: Neutral; or, as some have said, selfish. I'll help |
Well, you know what they say; when God gives you lemons, stuff 'em down your shirt to make your tits look bigger. I'm about 5'5", 34-26-36 (what? You mean you don't know that off the top of your head?). Although, I'm not against the occasional shirt-stuffing, if it helps with the outfit, y'know? I'm white enough to scare Casper, hazel eyes, and currently my hair's this kind of violety-pink color. But that's subject to change. As for tats, I've got a mandala on my chest (no, I'm not explaining it), wings on my back (those either) and a sleeve on my arm (easy enough: it looks fucking badass). I've got two lip hoops, my nasal septum (you know, the bull-looking one?) a regular nose hoop... my ears are pierced to shit, I don't remember getting half of them done, but hey, I like 'em, they'll stay. With all of that going on, I don't really pull off 'business casual' that great; thankfully, it's a face made for radio, and any public appearance I'd be banished to would be punk-dress or worse. I've been known to own a plaid skirt or two in my time, but that's a completely different story. And, probably, an over-share. |
Leaping tall buildings in a single bound? Not this girl. Not without a lot of help from a few of my friends, if you know what I mean, wink wink and everything. Uh. Talking? I'm a radio DJ. I hit buttons, play music, and stay up far too late at night making ordinary people feel like rock stars by getting on air. I've also been told I'm very handy with a deck of playing cards. And my tongue. But that's back to the over-share thing, isn't it? If we're talking interesting, PG-13 rated talents? That's mostly thanks to my imaginary friend. Or the amount of drugs I'm on at the time, maybe, it's kind of hard to tell. But I've started to... I don't know, know things? Things people think. And like, I can influence... it. Kind of. I haven't really worked that all out yet, but if I try- really try- I can convince people of almost anything. It's like the Force; "These are not the tits you were looking for," I usually try to avoid the weird hand motion, though. I can also read Latin (and a lot of other, more vague, squiggly-line based languages) now. Which is awesome in a 'most useless new talent ever' kind of way. Oh, and this one time after my big 'awakening' or whatever the hell you call it, my friend took me out to some new-agey granola cruncher drum circle whatever? And people were scared of me. I don't know what's up with that. It had something to do with bad chi? Which is probably as bad a thing as it sounds, if it was so fucking upsetting that a lady doused me with cat piss or something to try and wash it off. Which reminds me... Things I'm not enjoying out of my little psychosis? Oh, where to begin. Ghosts, probably as good a place as any. The show with the pretty little brunette helping people 'pass on' or whatever is a complete boldfaced lie. These bitches don't ask for your help, they try to maim you. Thankfully, they're not solid, so it's just trippy to see. Otherwise? This 'Agency' and I would be having a bit of a violent conversation. It's bad enough I have to see the shit when I sleep... Did you know you can smell things in your dreams? Apparently only if they're vile enough to make that big of an impression, but you can. And let me tell you- not as fun as it sounds. |
I think it's probably easiest to sum this up by saying 'the situation's gone from bad to worse'. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm a social figure, I know how to smile and put on a good show for people. And life of the party I can do- especially if she's cute ;) But I don't make... BFFs, I guess. Never have. All of the lean on me emotional crap, the slumber parties and study parties and fucking purse parties. So not my scene. You want to hang out, smoke a bit, rock out? Hells yes. But don't come crying to me when your car breaks down, or that dick you're spending time with breaks it off. A) We live in Chicago, not exactly hard to solve either of those problems. And B) you're a big boy/girl/strangely-androgynous-human, I'm sure you can figure it out yourself. I'm not someone people lean on. I've been burned too many times for that shit. The only person who's gets away with that is [[ooc: this'll be the SL 'The Chas', when I get my SL page set up.]], and he doesn't really count. He's like my brother; or what I can imagine having one would have been like. The weird part is? From everything I can see, Johnny boy's the same way. If you add a few ghosts, near death experiences, and a lot of acid into that whole thing. Right on down to [[Chas]]. If I believed in that sort of thing, I'd say it was fate. In reality, it probably just has to do with the mutual metric fuckton of drugs the imaginary idiot and I have done, in our lives. Listen to me, talking like he's real. But then that's the 'point', isn't it? So here, I'll give it the old college try: John's a 70s Brit-Punk out of the gutters of London. I'm a gen-X punk-without-borders from a disgustingly suburban Chicago. He's an atheist who's done a lot of drugs, I'm an agnostic who enjoys a bit of a rave now and then. I guess the one difference you could draw is that I have a lot more memory of getting laid than he does. And at least my friends tend not to die awful deaths. |
I grew up an only (human) child, although the parents did tell me a few times that I was supposed to have been twins. Family friends say that the other one was a boy, kind of scrawny, his lungs weren't developed enough to live on his own. John says that makes me a Golden Girl, but always refuses to explain what he means. Anyway- mom, Georgia, is a pilates instructor in some posh upper-level studio in the theatre district (and, for the record, was into pilates before Angelina Jolie made it cool). Go online and google 'sixties counterculture', and you'll have a pretty good idea of my mom's personality; mellow to the point of being stoned, 'open to the universe', bleeding heart liberal who bikes to work and makes her own clothes. How she and my dad ended up together is completely beyond me. Which brings me to Mr. Wall Street himself, Matthew Creedy. If you're still in google, look up Stephen M Ross, otherwise known as my father's role model. He's a financial analyst for a big-name insurance company (we're not supposed to say which, thank you strange confidentiality laws), and is just as dry and strange as that description implies. He and my mom are just about the definition of 'opposites attract', but somehow, they work. He helps her be more serious, somewhat connected to the outside world. She helps him loosen up a bit, and remember what those 'emotion' things are supposed to feel like. I can't say it's normal, but then, it kind of explains a lot, doesn' t it? I don't have much by way of family, anymore. I see the parents for the usual holidays, occasionally a birthday. They still live in the 'burbs. No aunts or uncles around, no cousins. A few friends, here or there, but. I function better alone.? |
What is there really to say? I was the last of my family's cliché 2.5 kids (the first two a cat named Heathrow, or as I liked to call him, he-cat the pillow, and a parrot named Fish. Don't ask.) It was sort of like 'Leave it to Beaver', if June had been a health-obsessed, granola-crunching pilates instructor, and Ward had been an investment banker who was just as likely to be on Wall Street as he was at home. Oh, and Wally was a parrot, but you know, it could be argued... Anyway- lots of love, little face time. I wasn't really brought up in what you might call a 'strict' household; I was that typical stand-offish awkward high-schooler with the technicolor hair and her nose buried in some fantasy novel or another. I played around with Wicca and 'magic' and that sort of stuff, like all kids do, but it couldn't really be considered 'acting out'. That would imply my parents cared. No, so long as it kept me occupied and out of sight- and I wasn't doing anything ridiculous like eating flesh or whatever- it was kosher. That probably explains away a lot of my boundaries, or rather, the lack of them. I don't remember much of my first couple years of college. Somehow I managed to pass two terms without any recollection of the material at all- there was a lot of drugs, and enough alcohol to fill a small lake, in that time. You know the old saying, 'push until it breaks'? I lived it. However, unlike Amy Winehouse, I wasn't too proud a bitch to take my seventy-day health spa vacation, and I'm currently in recovery. Ish. Uh, right. As of this moment, I'm a senior of telecommunications at UC, a midnight DJ on Q101, and a weekend house DJ at a club called the Chubby Pickle, off the Miracle Mile. But what you really want to know about- the man in the myth, right? Well. I had my 'awakening' (is there a term for it? Because I'm getting sick of making that shit up) about five years ago. I thought it was just messed up dreams from the meds I was on, until the guy showed up at my door. I figured he was shitting me, or I was stoned or something, because really, when someone shows up and tells you there's a middle-aged ex-punk magician chilling out in your brain? You think you're getting Punk'd. I humored him, figuring it was one of the frat guys riding my ass, but then he, like... knew things. He could finish explaining my dream in great detail, from just a little snippet that I remembered. It was- is- so fucking bizarre. He kind of lost me with the whole talk of 'sides' and shit. It really shaved my poodle, to suddenly be expected to pick something, without any facts other than 'there's a war on'. I mean, I'm a student, for fuck's sake. 'Urgent' to me, was final exams on the same week as a hash bash happening over in Windsor. (Or maybe John was the one with the issues? Most of the memories are easy enough to sort out- he's old. And a guy, for fuck's sake. But some of the opinions are starting to blur.) I don't know. One of these days, I've been trying to get a little more involved, see what all the fuss is about. But like anything, I can't just get a straight story. Some war, if I can't even notice it, right? |
name → Colleen age → 21 aim → triple7lies ooc ij → illogictimezone → EST note → Not Dice Suicide, nothing to do with DC/Vertigo or Hellblazer. No profit is being made, please don't sue. Info banner by me, icons and other artwork by 24601 |