billie agnes walker

[elle]

-- BILLIE AGNES WALKER !

-- NAME: Wilhelmia Agnes Walker
-- NICKNAMES: Billie
-- AGE & BIRTHDAY: 15, June 22nd.
-- BIRTH PLACE: Capeside
-- ORIENTATION: Heterosexual
-- OCCUPATION & SCHOOL GRADE: Sophomore
-- PLAYED BY: Taylor Momsen

-- PERSONALITY !

-- ANNOYING: Is annoying a trait or a state of being? Maybe irritating is a better fit. But Billie Walker embodies both. She's at that age where trying to know yourself ends up in intensifying each vice you hold. She alternates from being too talkative (because she's trying to mimic her sister's charisma) to being suddenly quiet, to be that femme fatale enigmatic. There's something about not knowing herself that makes her want to know too much about everyone around her. It could be because of her mother's profession but she's quite fond of 'psychoanalyzing' others and making her voice heard even when its not valued or needed.
-- OPINIONATED: Too opinionated maybe. But she's well-informed and has taken up a few causes. She's extremely Democratic and often too liberal in her views. She often tells other people how they should change things but has no plan of action. The pro's of being so opinionated is that she is not very naive or easily influenced, she does make those slips that girls her age often do but she doesn't fall for them very easily.
-- INTELLECTUAL: She has no sense of creativity but if you put a book and a pencil in front of her, she'll be the happiest kid in the world. At first she was trying to be pretentious, or read beyond her years to impress other people. Why else would a ten year old have a copy of The Economist? But soon she found her niche, found that people appreciated this from her a bit (and by people she means school boards), and decided to expand on it. This area in her life is quite logical, which she relishes. She can understand it because there's method too it. It's hard for her to be spontaneous.

-- COMPULSIVE: Billie enjoys living by a complete and fixed schedule. She uses a coloured system. White is for sleeping, red for studying, blue for surfing and/or swimming, green for reading, and black for carnal desires (which she isn't having but likes to make other people think she is). She's prone to crying over the simplest imperfection and until recently had issues accepting that some television networks start their line ups five minutes into the hour instead of at the hour.



-- LOVES: barack obama, anderson cooper, order, swimming, surfing, ayn rand, e.e. cummings, utilitarism, satre, celery, and male boxers.
-- HATES: the tea party, barack's low popularity ratings, being in her sister's shadow, being socially awkward, chlorine making her hair go green, french fries, justin bieber, the domestication of animals, sun-burns.

-- HISTORY !

It could be said that Billie from the start sparkled less
than her sister Amanda. Since she was the second child to David and Elizabeth it was as if the novelty of having child
had already worn off and they already knew the correct formula to deal with crying babies or bratty toddlers; gifts, gifts, gifts. It was not that Bilie was a bratty child but she found
pleasure out of the simplest things (like a puppy with a cardboard box) which meant she did not have to be coddled over. It was probably from there when Billie realized that if she wanted to get the attention that her sister had, she had to act out. But that 'Toddler Without a Cause' phase was short-lived.

She spent her childhood like any child would spend their childhood but instead of say, being invited to sleepovers, she'd spend evenings in her mother's office reading files on her peer's parents and coming into school the next day and telling them that their mother's did not feel sexually satisfied by their father's anymore. Of course did not get her much friends in school and it gave her the reputation as the 'weird' one in primary and junior high and it seemed that the only thing that saved her from being a total elementary school reject was the fact that she was Amanda Walker's sister.

Now in high school she was determined to make the new start, whether it was from trying out for the cheerleading squad (but then realizing she hated the objectifying of women) to dressing more provocatively (but Capeside's winters and exposed breasts isn't a good combination). She's starting her year like she's tried to start every year in her school career, trying be known as 'Billie' instead of Amanda Walker's little sister.

-- SAMPLE !

Laying on her back in the bed, staring at the ceiling she realized she spent far too much of her life laying on her back staring a ceilings.
With decrepit men who were near-death heaving on top of her, Bensoning her Hedges. Men, not boys. Men who fought in wars. Men with beloved wives. Men who bed young whores. Men who had children, who had children. Men who wore tweed blazers and neckties. And night, night, night drolled along with eyes fixed on ceiling fans, legs spanned. Wham, bam, (thank you ma’am).

Then there were those nights, laying in lonely beds. Like tonight. Where she stared at the ceiling, mouthing comforting thoughts, with the the dull glow from her nightlight in the corner of her eye. Peppermint. Rowan’s Wallaby. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Mom. Ilse. Dick. Alois. Dick. Dick. Heath. Heath. Tuxedo cake. Pink elephants. Orange chocolate. Karlie. Golden-roofed Burmese temples. Tents in Wales. Die Lorelei. And if the mantra was useless and the reality of being utterly alone in black, silent room crept up against her, then she left.

She stretched in her bed and pulled herself out of its familiar, starch sheets. Pulling on an unfamiliar, flannel shirt which was neither hers nor known to her who it belonged to she did the delicate dance en pointe to the door. Some nights she felt like Moses crossing the Red Sea but instead of walls of water lining her, there were sleeping dryads. And in the port of the room, in its far-most corner laid the most important one of all. She looked like an angel, but slept like a whore. Body sprawled across the mattress, loose brown hair straight from Bellocq’s photos from Storyville, and mouth open like Saint Teresa in Ecstasy. Like any night, she’d pull the quilt over Lolita, making sure to cover that yellow bruise on her arm she’d probably given the nymphette herself out of some jealous or childish fit. She gives her a kiss on the cheek, but her motives behind it were utterly out of sisterly obligation — utterly.

She did not feel comfortable touching people or with people touching her. Not just perverse touchings, but any sort of brush, pet, pinch or feel. There was no grim, pall, pain, or dread to it. It was as simple as hating the screech of nails on chalkboards. In its core it was completely and utterly selfish. She did not want to share, she did not want to let others be in her personal space, the only way you could touch her was if you were pleasing her in some way: hugging, kissing, or coitus. The limbic aversion manifested its way through a series of peculiar mannerism: a) sitting on the farthest end of any dining table, seats away from her peers for the fear that they might accidentally touch elbows B) needing two seats to herself in any situation be it a school assembly, chapel, or a flight even if its at the expense of another individual going without a place c) standing up in situations where everyone is seated because the open seat is much too close to the person next to her. and d) pressing herself against the walls of halls as she walked, even in the middle of the night, so she would not have to fear brushing arms with someone.

There was something miserable about Beaton; it was not the dead silence of the dormitories or the seemingly-everlasting rain that decided to make its presence known once more as she walked outside. There existed this tension of knowing that this was not the end, though it felt like the end; that it was only the first step of a long and dreary life. That after days, months, years of living here their quiet complacency was more volatile then it seemed. It was a feeling of Chekhovian nastroenie, which she often felt she experienced alone and that no one knew what it was except for her, and if she tried to convey it or explain it it was utterly lost. She knew that people had reasons for feeling this way; maybe they had neglectful parents, maybe they were raped, maybe they had abusive boyfriends, terminal diseases. But didn’t know why she herself felt this way but she knew there was someone else who felt the same way.

Gaspard, the wise man with Jupiter’s libido, often told her that the Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow. It took her years to figure out that this wasn’t a piece of his usual innuendo. It was only a lazy walk to the Storr, thirty minutes on a rainy day because your feet stuck to the mud. For the year she tried to be Lux Lisbon, she wrote ‘Didrik Staffeldt’ on her underwear. Her mother, who was understandably concerned that her seven year old had boy’s names penned onto her Sailor Moon panties threw each pair out. To her, he was completely predictable. She knew everything from what side of his mouth he placed his cigarette in, to how he licked his lips before a smoke, and to what particular time and where he smoked them. The Old Man of the Storr always had a bedfellow, and that bedfellow was Norwegian and a terrible smoker .She brought herself down, sitting down next to him and resting her head on his shoulder. ”Stop avoiding me. “

-- OOC !

-- NAME OR ALIAS: Elle
-- AGE: 17
-- THREE WORDS THAT DESCRIBE YOU: Hungry, tired, bored.
-- HOW YOU FOUND US: Advertisements.

[* NIKKI THE PEACOCK QUEEN]

-- ACCEPTED !

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