Post by xi coleman. on Sept 4, 2011 7:52:19 GMT -5
xi coleman.
SIXTEEN. MALE. GIFTED. HOMOSEXUAL.
As you must know, my name is Xi. Xi Coleman. I'm sixteen years old, and, obviously, I'm a guy. If you couldn't figure that out with one look, then you can take two looks, and look between my legs. Another thing you must know is that I am gay. So incredibly gay that it's almost funny, the aura of sheer homosexuality that emanates from every pore in my skin. So...that's pretty much for the outside, so I guess you want inside now, too. Well, I'll tell you the very first thing; I am a notoriously cheerful person. I'm not kidding. The addition to this is that I am most cheerful when others are cheerful or crying on my account. I'm rude, is pretty much the message I'm trying to convey. But aside from this rudeness, I'm actually a nice person. Very sensitive if you can find a chink in my armor. I consider my indifference to be my greatest strength, but I know it'll eventually be my downfall. I might be vicious, intelligent, and cold, but this also makes me incredibly ignorant. I refuse to see the dangers in dangerous situations. Mostly because I've grown overconfident ever since I found out about my gift. Speaking of which, I should probably get to telling you my story.
I was born to a wealthy family. A wealthy family, for sure, but a wealthy family that cared very little for me. This didn't bother me very much until I turned ten, and I actually began to notice how...asocial my parents were. Whenever I tried to talk to them, they ignored me. Acted like I didn't exist. But I was a smart kid; I knew perfectly well how to find out about them. So one day, I simply hid in my father's office. He was on the phone, yelling at someone named Adam. "No, Adam! He hasn't shown any of the signs! I don't want him to be like me." He had shouted. What did he mean? I remembered wondering that constantly for the next two weeks. Then finally, I decided to buck up the courage and ask him. He didn't say anything. Just sort of froze. I remember shouting at him. Telling him that he was the worst father in the world. Yelling at him about how I had needed him as a kid. I didn't even realize that his desk was spinning and flipping quite angrily in the air behind me. Dad broke down. Fell quite literally to his knees. I couldn't hear him as he lamented, but the desk soon fell to the floor. What had happened? Had I done something wrong? I didn't know, because I was out of the office faster than I could say "bye."
As was natural, I was always curious as to what the hell Dad had been talking about. And who was Adam? Better yet, why had he been talking about me with this Adam person? I spent the longest time stuck in ignorance. Four entire years not knowing what had happened on that day. Four entire years spent in bliss, not knowing what I could do. Sure, there were clues all around me. At twelve, I had jumped off of a swing set, and glided an easy fifteen feet farther than normal. But I had ignored it, and assumed that everyone could to it. At thirteen, I was smarter. A crack in the junior high floor. I assumed that it had merely always been there. But, at last, the age of fourteen, when I had come to terms with my gift. In eighth grade, I started to experiment with it. Mostly it was just small jokes and pranks. I knocked coffee onto teacher's shirts, made people's pencils fly across the room... And then I got the idea of using this gift to defend myself. This was only a short time after I came out of the closet.
The insults I endured were very basic, and very unimaginative. Just people calling me gay, or a faggot. Like I cared or something. It wasn't until I was beaten that I started to get angry. What was wrong with these people? And what did they find wrong about me? I couldn't tell if I tried. But that time was when I put my foot down. Quite literally, actually. This time, they had decided to bring weapons. Freaking weapons to beat up a guy that they thought had no defense. What they really did was give me more ammunition. One carried a baseball bat, another a...a gun. Yes, a gun. Mr. Baseball came first, aiming directly for my head. The bat didn't even attempt to reach it's mark. Rather, it flew around my head, and knocked him full-on in the back of the head. He fell to the floor. Mr. Bullet aimed and shot. There was barely any noise. Before he had pulled the trigger, though, I put my hand up. The bullet was half a centimeter away from my palm, spinning rapidly in midair. I made a finger gun, and pulled my imaginary trigger. The bullet flew over, and right down the barrel of the gun. They didn't bother me after that. Nothing really happened after that until the present, as I am.
Well, that was fun, no? Well, you get to hear me describe myself now. Put simply, I'm very attractive. I have light brown hair, and dark brown eyes. My skin is pale. But, who cares about the simplistic? Let's go into the melodramatic. My eyes are a dark, rich chocolate brown that more often than not, hold people against their will to follow me. They charm people like magic. My hair is long, and caramel-colored. I need to keep it out of my eyes fairly often, so it's just a simple flick of my head, and viola! I can see. My skin is, and always will be, pale. Colored white like paper, it often has a flush in my cheeks, but it's never overwhelming in color, or lack of color. In terms of daily wear, I'm usually found in a button-down plaid or flannel long-sleeved shirt, with the cuffs rolled just above my elbows. I usually wear skinny jeans, but the kind that are made for guys, and not girls. Oh, and one more thing; I can move things with my mind.
I was born to a wealthy family. A wealthy family, for sure, but a wealthy family that cared very little for me. This didn't bother me very much until I turned ten, and I actually began to notice how...asocial my parents were. Whenever I tried to talk to them, they ignored me. Acted like I didn't exist. But I was a smart kid; I knew perfectly well how to find out about them. So one day, I simply hid in my father's office. He was on the phone, yelling at someone named Adam. "No, Adam! He hasn't shown any of the signs! I don't want him to be like me." He had shouted. What did he mean? I remembered wondering that constantly for the next two weeks. Then finally, I decided to buck up the courage and ask him. He didn't say anything. Just sort of froze. I remember shouting at him. Telling him that he was the worst father in the world. Yelling at him about how I had needed him as a kid. I didn't even realize that his desk was spinning and flipping quite angrily in the air behind me. Dad broke down. Fell quite literally to his knees. I couldn't hear him as he lamented, but the desk soon fell to the floor. What had happened? Had I done something wrong? I didn't know, because I was out of the office faster than I could say "bye."
As was natural, I was always curious as to what the hell Dad had been talking about. And who was Adam? Better yet, why had he been talking about me with this Adam person? I spent the longest time stuck in ignorance. Four entire years not knowing what had happened on that day. Four entire years spent in bliss, not knowing what I could do. Sure, there were clues all around me. At twelve, I had jumped off of a swing set, and glided an easy fifteen feet farther than normal. But I had ignored it, and assumed that everyone could to it. At thirteen, I was smarter. A crack in the junior high floor. I assumed that it had merely always been there. But, at last, the age of fourteen, when I had come to terms with my gift. In eighth grade, I started to experiment with it. Mostly it was just small jokes and pranks. I knocked coffee onto teacher's shirts, made people's pencils fly across the room... And then I got the idea of using this gift to defend myself. This was only a short time after I came out of the closet.
The insults I endured were very basic, and very unimaginative. Just people calling me gay, or a faggot. Like I cared or something. It wasn't until I was beaten that I started to get angry. What was wrong with these people? And what did they find wrong about me? I couldn't tell if I tried. But that time was when I put my foot down. Quite literally, actually. This time, they had decided to bring weapons. Freaking weapons to beat up a guy that they thought had no defense. What they really did was give me more ammunition. One carried a baseball bat, another a...a gun. Yes, a gun. Mr. Baseball came first, aiming directly for my head. The bat didn't even attempt to reach it's mark. Rather, it flew around my head, and knocked him full-on in the back of the head. He fell to the floor. Mr. Bullet aimed and shot. There was barely any noise. Before he had pulled the trigger, though, I put my hand up. The bullet was half a centimeter away from my palm, spinning rapidly in midair. I made a finger gun, and pulled my imaginary trigger. The bullet flew over, and right down the barrel of the gun. They didn't bother me after that. Nothing really happened after that until the present, as I am.
Well, that was fun, no? Well, you get to hear me describe myself now. Put simply, I'm very attractive. I have light brown hair, and dark brown eyes. My skin is pale. But, who cares about the simplistic? Let's go into the melodramatic. My eyes are a dark, rich chocolate brown that more often than not, hold people against their will to follow me. They charm people like magic. My hair is long, and caramel-colored. I need to keep it out of my eyes fairly often, so it's just a simple flick of my head, and viola! I can see. My skin is, and always will be, pale. Colored white like paper, it often has a flush in my cheeks, but it's never overwhelming in color, or lack of color. In terms of daily wear, I'm usually found in a button-down plaid or flannel long-sleeved shirt, with the cuffs rolled just above my elbows. I usually wear skinny jeans, but the kind that are made for guys, and not girls. Oh, and one more thing; I can move things with my mind.
