my name is percy christel. i stand shorter than average, perhaps about five-foot-seven-inches. high cheekbones, i am told. eyes like a doe, some say, others not so much. ‘percy,’ they say to me, ‘percy, your eyes, i see malice in those orbitals,’ they say. i am not quite sure. i am never quite sure. emanations, to me, are my whole understanding of the world. does that make sense to you? i hope it does. i perceive, i compound emanations. vibes. the auras of things. do you get it now? i hope you do. okay. i digress. please understand. my skin is not pale, although i would like it to be, pale as the feathers of the swan; pale as paper, perhaps, or maybe a ghost, or some other such thing. my skin is, due to my heritage, something sandy and something tan. please understand. i have some scars, which i have named after those who have driven me to their infliction (upon myself). some are little, some are small, barely visible even, which correlates to the emotion invested into them and the person who had grieved me so. yes. understand. i wear double-bridged glasses shaped like teardrops. ‘aviators.’ untinted. i wear these glasses because i saw jeffrey dahmer wear them. i do not like jeffrey dahmer, but sometimes i do. understand. my hair is long, fluffy, and brown, lacking sheen, and not quite dark but not quite light. wavy. i ensure my hair hides those parts of my face i deem antithetical to my presentation. i must always present myself with elegance. this body is a temple to its onlookers, no matter the rot and mildew within, which there is much of. verily. there is not much else to say about my appearance.
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