ROBINSON, Tyler Brendon

[tylerrobinson]

[AboutTheRoleplayer]

Name; trashleyy
Age:: eighteen
Roleplaying Pet Peeve: When people don't use quotation marks.
Other: Cukoo Bananas

[AboutTheCharacter

[/center]

Full Name: Tyler Brendon Robinson
Age: Seventeen
PB: Brendon Urie
Mental Condition/Disorder: Muteness/ Night Terror Disorder

Personality:
Brendon isn't your average shy guy. He has friends, isn't a dork and isn't exactly anti-social. He's just.. Brendon, for lack of a better word. His voice is soft until you get him into a conversation, then it's pretty hard to shut him up. If he likes you, he'll talk to you. If he doesn't like you or doesn't know you, he'll do his best to give you a shy 'hello' or a brief wave before blushing like an idiot. A lot of the time, the young man is too shy to even get a sentence out without stuttering like an idiot. Nevermind getting him to talk to a girl or boy that he even remotely finds attractive.

Okay, maybe the stuttering is a little over the top. Brendon is an over achiever in the english language and sometimes will go to great lengths on essays and such to come out sounding as eloquent as possible. While talking, he doesn't quite try and make himself sound like a nerd, but he rarely uses any for of slang by any means. Bren simply believes it is butchering the English language, just like he won't even bother IMing you back if you don't take the time to type out 'you' instead of 'u'. He has a few little OCD problems of that nature, really. While sometimes he is too shy to talk to someone, he'll flirt back given the opportunity.

Brendon is shy and tries to keep himself out of trouble. While he was beat up quite a few times back in middle school, he rarely fought back. Never a snide or rude remark in return. Brendon is a pacifist and really tries avoiding the drama that comes along with everyday teenage life. Bren is a virgin, though he has had about three girlfriends, none of which were long term. All three said that they couldn't stay with him because he was too quiet, didn't talk, or was too obsessed with music to even understand commitment to anything else. Brendon is a music-freak. His mind doesn't work well with math or science, but rather with frets, notes and chords. He is a lyricist as well as a composer, creating his own songs for personal entertainment. Though he very rarely shows his lyrics to anyone, he is quite proud of them and only really plays them in the comforting silence of being by himself.

Really, Bren is just different. He was made differently than about ninty percent of the world and he is just fine with that. People have pointed out to him that his brain shouldn't work as it does, but he knows that it's just special. Of course, the drugs he is on help out the imagination he holds for his lyrics, but the way he thinks contrasts that fact so well. Play a song for him on guitar,. he can pick it up and mimick your chords. Brendon has picked up a slew of instruments over the years. Guitar, Bass, Violin, Piano, Cello, Accordian. While he is quite self-depreciating and doesn't believe he's all that good, he's actually not all that bad.
History:
Tyler was born on October 31st, 1991 to Arvette Robinson. Born just five pounds, six ounces, he was a runt and wasn't expected to live through the night. Obviously, he proved them all wrong. Over the years as Tyler grew up, he was constantly forced to switch schools because he was bullied over the years, especially as a kid in elementary school. Being mute, kids liked to tease him and ask him questions and insult him when they knew that he simply could not answer. Though Tyler was mute by choice and had the physical strength to respond, his mental stability was weak. He figured a new place, a new school, a new Ty. His academic grades aren't all that great, but god can the boy play music. Tyler learned to play Guitar, Bass, Piano, Violin, Cello, Accoridan all by the age of fourteen.

When Tyler turned thirteen, his mother passed away. Having no father or no siblings around, his aunt was sent to take care of him until she got tired of him and sent him down here, where he began to take care of himself..sort of. He figures he hasn't done a very good job and could really use someone to take care of him.

Tyler has attemped suicide twice. Though, sometimes you'd barely be able to tell. Tyler can be a happy kid in front of the majority of people, though when he's all alone its just so much different. Being alone is one thing he has always been afraid of, however. As much of a quiet, drug-addicted boy is he, no one has ever gotten close enough to him to bring out his extremely sensitive side. Tyler is a cuddler. A guy who needs to be held..a guy who needs someone to fix him. No one has ever taken the opportunity to even try.

At the age of twelve, Tyler picked up smoking and drinking and by fifteen was addicted to such pills like adderol and a list of pain killers. He keeps his drug habits on the low and gets awfully embarrassed when people find out about it. He doesn't enjoy talking about it in the slightest and really would prefer if no one knew. This is kind of hard to do when you're rediculously pale, sweating feverishly and shaking like you're having a seizure.

Being born in Las Vegas is a tough thing to do. Everyone is either doing heroin around you or trying to sell it to you. If it wasn't for Tyler's extreme fear of needles, there is no doubt he'd be a heroin addict by this point. While heroin isn't his deal, cocaine is. After all that has happened to him in his childhood, he uses drugs as a temporary escape, as wrong as he knows it is. Cocaine, Speed, Weed, Alcohol...all of the above. Tyler feels very little need to ever discuss his childhood, his hometown or his parents. While he loved his mother dearly, he cannot stand his father as he sexually abused him as a child, which causes a lot of psycological drama in Tyler's young mind. He hides it well, however, and has not told a soul. He doubts he ever will. Not long after this ordeal, he was diagnosed with Nightmare Disorder, causing him to have severe night terrors on regular occasions.

Tyler's muteness has always been apparent. At a very young age, he stopped speaking, only able to answer his mother and father with nods and shakes of his heads. As many physcologists as he has been to over the years, none, obviously, have got him to start talking and they cannopt figure out what event triggered it. Usually, a traumatic event or a religious rebel will stop speaking due to their own beliefs, but they couldn't figure out what traumatic event triggered it. Of course, Tyler has always known, but he obviously was inable to voice his opinion.

Tyler's Nightmare Disorder is completely out of control. Most of the time, he doesn't totally remember what happens in his terrors, but he wakes up shaking, sweating and sometimes crying. On nights when he has nightmares, Ty makes the only sound he ever makes, which is a scream. His screams end up piercing the late night and early morning. While doctors think it was a break-through that he makes noise, it is still the only noise he is able to make.

What happened to their parents: Tyler's father left home shortly after his sixth birthday and neither he or his mother heard from him after that.Then, when Tyler turned thirteen, his mother finally succombed to cancer. His aunt then sent him here. He dropped his first name and then became Brendon Robinson.
Appearance:
Brendon is a small, fragile looking boy. Born premature and small, he has always been the runt of the family. Standing at a mere 5'8 and weighing in at ninty-nine, he's pretty small. Obviously, taller than he is fat. Of course, he doesn't mind it though. Small often means cute and he strives to be so. Bren is quite pale as well, but by choice. He's never been one for tans. With brown hair that you could barely say was a bit shaggy and honey brown eyes, he found himself to be too common. Nothing really out of the ordinary with his looks, which slightly dissapoints him. For piercings, he has absolutely none. As a kid, he was never allowed to get anything piecred due to his Mormon mother's wishes, as well as his aunts.

Yes, Brendon Robinson does indeed wear make-up. A little bit of mascara once and a while and a whole lot of eyeliner. Tyler likes making designs with eyeliner and blush quite a bit around his eyes, which he does quite a bit. Brendon has large, puppy-dog eyes that usually, he can use to get what he wants. Back to his make-up, he only does it when he dresses up, however. The designs are often quite theatrical. Sometimes little black birds will exist in a red blush shadow, or other times it will be a simple design. Brendon is an awfully creative eighteen year old and anytime, no matter who you are, if you only ask him for help with your make-up, he'll be glad to help.

Brendon looks like one of those scene boys, especially the way he dresses. His attire is often theatrical, trying to look different from the norm, which he is. Often clad in regular tee-shirts and sometimes a nice suitjacket to throw over it, he likes it just the way it is. Skinny jeans and any pair of ratty sneakers he can find, he'll wear 'em. Sometimes, he likes to keep things casual with just jeans and a tee-shirt. Also, going back to the whole Mormon lifestyle, Brendon never grew up with different clothes. When he was born and while he was growing up, even hand-me-downs were pretty much out of the question, considering he ahd no brothers or sisters. Brendon was always dressed in ratty, GoodWill clothing and well, now he refuses. Clothes were never important, but now to him, they're pretty big. Bren shops like a female, for sure, simply because he can. Now, since everything else is frowned upon in his life, why not actually look respectable for once?

Family:
Parents:
Mother:
Arvette Amanda Robinson
Deceased at age thirty.
Dentist.
Father:
Alexander Andrew Robinson
Left home shortly after Tyler's seventh birthday.
According to his mother, he was an Iron Worker in the Union.
Siblings: None he is aware of.
Other:

Likes:
+sweatshirts
+old sneakers
+his puppy
+girls
+boys
+the month of august
+Marlboro Reds
+vodka
+beer
+weed
+adderol
+kissing
+playing guitar
+cuddling
+fall out boy
+being loved.

Dislikes:
+being hated
+the way he looks
+baggy pants
+homophobes
+sweating
+his hometown
+his father
+confrontation
+television
+milk
+red meat.

Roleplay Sample:
"What do you mean you don't have the stuff, Bennett? You were told to have it today or I was going to kick your behind." a teen snarled angrily, surrounded my his group of friends. The smaller teen gave him a nervous chuckle. "Behind." Shaking his head at the older boy, he spoke again. "See, that's the thing. Last night I-" was all he said before he was cut short with a hard blow to the jaw.

Oh, yes. Let the beating commence. A boy at the ripe the age of seventeen limped staggeringly away from the scene of where that very group of guys had nearly beaten him to a pulp. The boy was clad in black, skinny jeans that were held up on his slightly more-than-average frame by a shiny, pink studded belt. Adorning his chest was a now ripped tee-shirt that read 'Dawn of the Dead' on it, his favorite movie and over it was a gray and green striped hoodie that he was always trademarked for wearing. No, he wasn't some silly scene kid, though maybe he dressed a little like one.

Walking toward his high school, the young man sighed out of sheer exhaustion and defeat as he raised up a pale arm to wipe some of the excess blood from his now split-open lip. Poor guy, right? Well, he was used to it. No, he wasn't one of those loner freaks that got beat up every day for being different. He got beat up because though he was paid to get a slightly older student's habit underway, he decided against it and kept his money. Sure, the boy was trustworthy.. but only with people that he actually enjoyed their company. Don't trust him with money if he doesn't like you. Oh those bullies, weren't they just terrible?

Running one hand through rusty, reddish-brown hair, Patrick Holden Barrett continued to limp away from the group in a light, frustrated mood. His beat up, filthy, pink high top Chuck Taylor's scuffing along the concrete as he went, Patrick knew he'd escaped with one a few minor injuries. Hey, to him that was a small price to pay for the one hundred dollars he was now going to keep regardless. Brushing a few strands of straight hair from his dark green eyes, he finally arrived at the front yard of the school. He pushed his black, thick framed glasses back up to his eyes, and continued to stare at the ground a little, not really wanting anyone to gasp or pity him.

He hated pity. Stopping for a moment on the front steps of the school, Patrick dug in his nearly empty backpack, pulling out a brown conductors hat, slipping it on his head. It was rare that the boy didn't have a hat of some sort on. When he wore hats, it felt a little like he was shaded from the rest of the world and no one could bother him. Eh, so he was a little weird. Aren't we all,though?

Now, Patrick wasn't what you'd call skinny. Nor was he the epitome of 'fat'. He was simply a little above average, weighing in at a smooth one hundred and eighty-five lbs. And your d**n right he liked it that way. Patrick loved it compared to those anorexically thin boys that everyone seemed to mack on nowadays. He found them quite disgusting to be honest. Seriously, a guy that thin was barely a guy at all, in his opinion, though he'd never voice it out. Some of those stick-figures could kick major behind.

Patrick wasn't your average shy guy. He had friends, wasn't a dork and wasn't exactly anti-social. He was just.. Patrick, for lack of a better word. His voice was soft until you got him into a conversation, then it was pretty hard to shut him up.If he liked you, he'd talk to you. If he didn't like you or didn't know you, he'd either be sarcastic, ignore you, or blush and walk away. A lot of the time, Usually the young man was too shy to even get a sentence out without stuttering like an idiot. Yeah, that was pretty much him in a nutshell. Good old 'Tricky Bennett.

So, there he was. Battered, and bloody, Patrick sat down on the steps and continued to dig through his backpack. After a few groans of disappointment, he eventually found his red and white pack of Marlboro Reds and he nearly shrieked in delight. Feeling like he hadn't ever needed a ciggarette so bad in his life, he hastily pressed it between his lips, the filter stinging the open wound, but he didn't care. Pulling out his white lighter, he lit it, inhaling the smoke in utter bliss.
[/blockquote][/size]

[Lexi Cravers]

[Accepted!]