#im such a bottom bunk girl but i keep banging my head and im trying to type some schoolwork so i cant have that so now leaving the bed to

[songtocomus]

bunk beds are so frightening. unhand me foul beast

[ofdianaes-blog]

DIANA  ARCHIBALD [ VIRGINIA GARDENER ] is a JUNIOR at Broadripple Academy. She is SEVENTEEN years old, from BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS and has been at Broadripple Academy for HALF A year.

hiya all ! i’m meredith, i’m 18 and i never learned how to fucking read i’m super excited to be here ! feel free to slide into my ims if you want to plot at all, i’m down for whatever and am super excited to get to plotting with you all, and i hope you love/hate my new baby, diana just as much as i do. i’ve included some stuff about her under the cut, as well as some plot ideas i’d like to see. y’all can also message me on discord if you want for easier plotting, i’m meredith#3445

okay, her bio is all the way at the end of this just in case it’s posted on the main by the time i post this and i don’t wanna make anyone suffer through it. if you haven’t seen it, just scroll on down and it should be there for you to learn all about my girl. now for wanted plots/plot ideas ( i’m like, zero percent limited to any of these ) 

BLACKMAIL OR SYMPATHY? THE WORLD IS YOUR OYSTER basically, this plot is someone knowing that diana is a big fat faker. maybe they went to middle school with her, or one of her many different personalities in high school before they both ended up at broadripple. with all the times she’s moved, as long as it was in state ... it might very well be a possibility she knows one person. maybe they read her diary, she keeps it under her mattress. maybe they just caught her mouthing the words to a billboard top 100 song and her cover is blown. who knows! we can sort all that out. this person can either hold this over diana’s head, or they’ll feel bad for her and attempt to show her the ropes of everything and keep her secret on the dl. the first is more fun for me, the second is more fun for diana. your pick. 

YOU’VE_GOT_A_FRIEND_IN_ME.mp3 someone that sees through that pretentious candy shell to the mediocre chocolate that’s beneath. i imagine most people have a low tolerance for when diana gets into one of her real cinema is dead, i was born in the wrong generation moods, but this is the person that sticks by her, reminds her she’s being obnoxious, and she can still listen to the smiths in 2019, no one is stopping her. did they meet in english class, sharing an illicit cigarette, bonding over how diana is always getting a coffee? it’s all up to you, but partners in not really crime is something i’d love to see for her. she gets lonely, y’all. 

RIVALS TO ENEMIES TO RIVALS (100k, F/?) i’m running out of creativity for these plot ideas, okay? anyone who dare insinuate (or outright say) diana is wrong about, ahem, anything, or has poor taste or whatever is bound to be at the receiving end of her wrath. and by wrath, i mean glares across the hallway and the angry writings in her journal. don’t call it a diary, even though it really is, she’ll get mad. if this person wants to share passive aggressive quips and feuds, then ooh boy, is diana the enemy for them. this can be someone who’s uninhibited by her desperation for the cool factor and is just themselves, or someone who thinks she isn’t cool enough. either one will make her skin crawl. 

FILM PROTEGE / HER YOUNG PADAWAN they don’t even necessarily have to be into the same shit she is, or film at all, though they could want her to teach them about shitty foreign films and 80s sadgirl music. if she sees anyone shy or meek or just not with big enough of a personality, she’ll ceaselessly volunteer to show them to the world of not knowing how to shut their damn mouth. god knows that’s the world she’s living in. while she isn’t necessarily a rebel (she always recycles and does her homework), she does partake in habits such as [ gasp ] swearing and the devil’s lettuce. whether this person is shy or just extraordinary strait-laced .... let diana ( holes voice ) fix that 

okay, now her bio is below this line. enjoy !

Though Diana Archibald is indisputably a firecracker, to say she came into the world with a bang would be a bold faced lie. She was born to the archetypical white picket fence, upper middle class family. She donned pink onesies and cooed alongside family pet golden retriever, a friendly, brown-eyed creature named Max — Diana would vomit at how the stereotypes seemed to stack so neatly. Tragedy and betrayal, however, can taint even the most normal of lives, and with her mother’s cancer diagnoses, her father was out the door before she could toddle. Hindered by the cost of medical bills, Elizabeth Archibald, Diana’s partial namesake, withered away into nothing. With her father unable to be located for child support or to take her in, who was once a perfect, porcelain blonde baby doll became red faced and tearful toddler — a ward of the state, sent on the pipeline from foster home to foster home.

Diana was raised on half rewound VHS tapes and scratchy, skipping DVDs that she was shoved in front of to keep her docile and occupied. Her obsession with stories didn’t stop there, as she stumbling through the minimal words in picture books turned into devouring novels with a wind up flashlight under the thick covers of her bunk bed. She saw herself in the pages of protagonists burned by tragic backstories, of boys and girls who rose from the ashes and became strong and willful and exactly who she wanted to be. She wanted nothing more than to satiate the hunger she felt to be like them: to be something. And so, the lies began: carefully crafted, always a new story wherever she went.

The first half of freshman year, she was a bubbly cheerleader in a tiny town on the Connecticut border, where she reeked of bubblegum and painted her nails bright pink in class, doodling the names of the cutest boys in school amongst her math notes. Second half, she was a band geek in Cambridge, with grades imbalanced to direct her towards the arts as she nervously learned to play the clarinet, swapping spit under the bleachers with pimple faced boys who played the drums and frizzy-braided girls in the brass section. The first half of sophomore year she lived in the suburbs of Boston, where she had heavy black eyeliner and a permanent scowl on her face, she recited poetry and wrote her own, deep and dark. She got a stick and poke on her ankle in her best friend’s garage, and shoplifted religiously. Once January hit and she was somewhere else, demanding she was referred to only by her last name. She wore flannel and beanies and refused to speak in class, passing a joint back and forth around in the basement of a senior who looked at her with leering eyes. The first half of her junior year, she was the perfect church girl, her hair always in neat braids and a smile on lightly glossed lips as she perfectly enunciated hymns and messages of peace be with you. A golden cross hung loosely around her neck, and she meticulously frosted cupcakes for the school bake sale and highlighted passages in her bible.

That’s how she supposes, she ended up at Broadripple. After she was shoved out of that town, that school, that family, her newfound love of religion was deemed of enough importance: Diana was a lovely candidate for the philanthropy of Broadripple Academy, and they would be so happy to have her attend. She was used to moving, but not into buildings with ivy covered walls and pleated skirts being added to her wardrobe. The sudden, abrupt change unlike any other had left her floundering for a new personality to latch onto, a new story to spin: until she came up with the best one yet. The perfect story was a story maker, pathological liar turned into filmmaker. Polaroid camera is always tucked into her backpack, and phone is always ready to film. She’s no longer a participant: she’s an observer. Her father was an important producer in Hollywood, she told everyone in her science class. Her mother was a retired soap opera star, but she was just as beautiful as she was in her haydey. No one cared enough to Google, and ambiguities and carefully placed anecdotes were her specialties — it worked. Now, she was the creative, wide eyed and quiet, journaling late into the night and always with a cup of coffee in hand, contraband cigarettes kept in her bottom dresser drawer. She reads classic literature and insists music sounds better on vinyl, carefully critiquing the film taste of her peers.

No matter how carefully crafted, aren’t all ruses bound to end?

and her personality section !

She’s black coffee and vinyl records, she’s the crunch of fall leaves under your shoes and absent sharpie doodles up and down your arm. She’s ballpoint pens and perfume that smells like vanilla, she’s the big glasses perched on her nose that she doesn’t really need, she’s cheeks carefully dusted with blush to make her look kissed by winter air. She’s cinnamon bubblegum and sitting cross legged in the grass, snapping photos of bunnies as they trot between trees.

DISHONEST: There’s an itch that can’t be scratched away, and it’s to tell another lie. One more won’t hurt. She tells herself, in fact, it might just help. She’s lived in Beverly Hills and Brooklyn, she tells them, twirling her hair nervously around her finger. She’s never even left the state.

ASTUTE: There’s no denying Diana is smart. One has to be, to stop themselves from getting tangled in a web of dishonesty. Math and science aren’t specialties of hers, but they still come easily, and her natural flair for artistry and the dramatics has made her an excellent writer and creative student. Good grades are easily achieved, and Diana easily takes notice of things other people try to hide.

SELF-IMPORTANT: Diana does everything better, she’s sure of it. After all, she’s had to put in the research into how exactly to do things right. This new personality of hers only amplifies the airs of betterness she seems to put on — though there’s no cracks shown in confidence, it certainly is a facade.

GREGARIOUS: Even in her quite states, it’s always been easy for Diana to make friends. She’s naturally empathetic, and has no issue molding herself to suit what the conversation needs. She’ll donate to charity or talk shit behind your back — whatever the conversation calls for. She’s a social butterfly that can never seem to settle on a hive, and that leaves most of her relationships at surface level.

[letters-to-the-people-ive-p-blog]

Trying to make sense of the past... my narc mother (I wrote this a few months ago)

From the time I was little I would be told this story. That I was a loud crying baby, annoying, never let my parents sleep unlike my little sister who was born just two years after me . She was an angel so sweet, quiet, barely made a sound when she needed anything. That she was so quiet and good that they thought she might be deft and banged pots and pans in her ears to see if she would react, if course she made a little sound but no cry like I would. You see from the time I can remember I was led to think I was the bad child and my sister was perfect and could do no wrong. They would have me sit in the front seat of the stoller and Alyssa would pull and rip my hair out of my head, and it was cute and funny. Of course i scrame and cried as hair was being torn out of mu head and i was the one told to stop. My parents would always tell this story as well. My mother and father decided to have 5 kid all about 2 years apart so I got my own room in the house that we still currently live in for maybe 3 years max since I was 2 when we moved here so I had to move into my sister's room since this is only a three bedroom 1 1/2 bath house. I had blocked alot of these memories out for years since for a time me and my sister became close but I was watching one of your videos and it all came flooding back to me. Alyssa tortured me once we moved into the same room. She use to whip me with her clothes for most of the time no reason, or if I said anything she didnt like to the point I had red marks on my body. I would run crying to my mother and without fail every time I was asked what I had done to MAKE her whip me with her clothes. I can not recall one time that she was punished for doing this, I think I would have remembered. We got bunk beds and I had to sleep on the top because "Alyssa wasn't old enough" even though I was terrified of hights. Alyssa would constantly kick me in the back from down below and thought it was funny. I would tell her to stop and I was yelled at for keeping Alyssa awake. And after telling my mom what had happen she would either just off handedly say Alyssa just stop and walk out or laugh and tell the story of how mean her sister Linda was to get and would kick her back or off Linda's bed. I'm pretty sure she told this story even before I moved rooms and planted the idea for Alyssa to kick me in the back. I also distinctly remember my mom constantly telling Alyssa that I pick on her and to stand up to me and to just hit me if I was mean to her when we were about 8 and 10. Honestly I don't remember much of my home life after that besides hiding from eveyone. When I was 9 and my little brother blaze was born the fifth kid, I was yelled at and told I wasn't supposed to do that when I just kissed my baby brother in the cheek by my dad I remember vividly running to my room bawling because I didn't understand what I had done wrong I was just trying to show my new little brother that I loved him. Anyways I ran to my room and hid under this small kids table i had in my room, was followed yelled at from under there and once my dad was done yelling and left I got a pen and wrote about what had happened on the bottom of that table. You see as that small child I had learned to do this from watching the little princess with Shirley temple as she would hide under her bed in that movie and write all the horible things that the caretakers and the girls boarding school has done to her. I fucking related to that. One of my other favorite movies as a kid was Matilda. I don't think there's much explain to do with that. But I use to pretend and try to move things with my mind like her, maybe to feel powerful like her. Also i looked alot like her when I was small, bangs, hair length and everything. I think I probably subconsciously wanted a miss honey in my life to save me from my home life. I can't remember a time where my parents didn't fight, I just don't. I'm not sure they have ever been happy together and from the information I've gathered from my grandparents and one of my dad's brothers my mom has been clearly a Manipulator from the start. And since identifying that my mother is most likely a narcissist and explaining it to my grandpa and uncle they both seemed relieved to understand almost as much as I was on what the hell has been going on with my mother, her actions, and the way she's been treating people. Anyways like I said before my mom and dad have always fought. Loud boisterous and everyone to hear. It is always started by my mother she'll say something such as why are you watching that stupid tv show why don't you do the dishes or laundry for once to my father who has just come home from working a 10 to 12 hour work day and finally gotten to sit down. He loves learning so he offten puts on the science or history channel to relax and all of us kids love watching it too. It's like there can't ever be a moment of peace. There always has to be something wrong or her life is soooo hard, ect. He typically is just confused at this statement and asks why she would ask him such a thing for the reason stated before but she always pushed his buttons to the point that it explodes into a huge fight. And usually ends up with my mom storming off to her bedroom and pouting. She does this to most the kids as well but in occasion if she's feeling extra dramatic she will leave her door wide open pack a bag scream and threaten to leave with a small child clinging to her begging her not to go to the point of crying where you dry heave. She would do this with me and I was that small child for a very long time till I learned that it was all for show and that she would never leave. As a kid into my teens and even now since I was labeled the bad kid in steps I figured I would do whatever I wanted because no matter how hard I tried I was never good enough. This was blatantly clear to me and emphasised even more so with my indoctrination/ brainwashing from the moment I was born by the Mormon church. If I didn't think the way they did I would never end up in the highest kingdom of heaven and I could never go and visit my family they would have to come and see me and they would be very sad or I would end up in outer darkness witch is basically hell. This is frightening to a child and if you're already being told no matter what you do you're wrong at home it felt for a long time that there was no hope for me. Good thing I'm stubborn and question everything. I pissed alot of teacher at that church for asking questions about things that didn't make sense. Also Im so glad I found a passion for reading and learning about new things because that what has saved me on so many accounts.