tristan visockis - d4 - FIN

I always thought Tristan was an awfully feminine name. What made it even worse is that my parents always shortened into to Tris, or Tristy, or something stupid like that.

But I guess all 6'4" of me kind of makes up for my dumb name. But unfortunately, what it doesn't make up for is my terrible effect on the ladies and how my mother makes me wear ugly sweaters every Sunday.

Nevermind that, I make those sweaters look good.

My hair is an ocean of gold, waving down my head, lapping wildly at the nape of my neck. Dark blonde, floppy, aloft on my head and often beaded with droplets of water. It slowly tapers off at the sides and back of my head. My freckles are pleasant visitors, coming and going with the sun, warm, friendly. My pale skin is like glass, my cheeks almost always singed pink. They make my otherwise sharp, somewhat intimidating face a little more welcoming when they're there. It's not my fault my eyes always seem to be glaring, dark orbs hanging underneath dark brows and stubby lashes. It's not my fault my cheekbones cut from my face probably a little too much, or that my lips' neutral position is pulled tight, pressed together in a thin line. 

I am tall. Lean. Almost lanky, shoulders too broad, waiting to be grown into. I'm not like the other boys, at least. I'm not exactly jacked, or badass, or whatever you call careers these days. I have a runner's body, because that's what I do. I run, I surf, I do recreational things that don't require stabbing. ( And I might like to add I have some fine calves ). With my added height, I look like I could be easily blown over, like I'm a twig. What can I say? I'm not exactly a body builder. 

I'd like to say I woo the girls, but being completely honest, I suck at that.

My mouth is full of hurdles and my words keep tripping over them no matter how hard I try. I always end up staring, reveling at their pretty eyes or how their smile is like a sunset. Of course, having a tall creep stare at you isn't attractive, as I've come to find out. So here I am, stranded on a dumb island in a gigantic sea of awkwardness that I can never get out of. My words are clumsy and flimsy, like I don't even know how to speak. They're never poetic or beautiful and it's so damn frustrating sometimes.

Maybe I should read more books. That might help.

Despite my slight speech difficulty when it comes to talking to ladies, I'm outgoing. People provide such good company, rain or shine. Maybe I count on them too much. Maybe I'm dependent on them to make me laugh or to cure my tears ( yes, I cry sometimes--- sue me ). I love parties and get togethers and anything dealing with happiness and no stabbiness. I'm addicted to people. To friendship, and talking. But I don't think that's bad. After all, there are worse addictions.

The games are a necessary evil.

My parents were only rich enough to be me a surfboard. But they just didn't have the money to enroll me in a career academy. I don't think that's what they'd want, anyway. I'm not complaining. Careers always seem too serious for my liking, all focused on killing and victory, and not enjoying the simpler things in life. I've met them many times, at parties, and they were headstrong and malicious and over the top full of themselves. And not to say that I don't indulge in myself on occasion, but that's not very attractive at all.

Maybe being a little poorer has its perks, after all.

I was born on a rainy day, in a slightly-better-than-cabin house that was probably fifty years old. My parents say I cried a lot, and ate a lot, and slept a lot, and that I had cute little fat rolls on my arms. My first steps were with my dad, and my first word was "mom" of all things. Baby me was not creative at all, it seems. But I was told that in my first year, it wasn't uncommon for me to have my middle finger sticking out. I think little Tristan had my fire and confidence than I do now, but I think me running around with my middle finger up would be frowned upon, so...

We weren't a rich family.

I could expect meals, but not lavish ones. I had to make my own lunches because my mother had to do the laundry for the richer folks to support us, and my father worked a graveyard shift at some fishing port. But they always ignored their dark bags under their eyes to entertain me. Sometimes I felt neglected, and other times I felt like the happiest boy in the world. After all, I did say I was a people addict. Even if said people make me wear her grandfather's sweater every Sunday and only see me about four or five hours a day.

My parents bought my a surfboard for my seventh birthday.

I was TERRIBLE. My parents didn't know how to surfboard, and at that point in my life, I was as uncoordinated as I am with my words now. I could stand on the wood for maybe five seconds, tops, without toppling over. After a week of downright failures, I was reduced to watching people as they surfed. I sat on the edge of the pier, my wet feet dangling off as the masters rode they waves like it was nothing. When they were finished, I would always ask a bit of advice. That became a mosaic for success for me, and in a year and a half, I could stand up with ease. Of course, it would take a few extra years before I could actually ride some serious waves.

Growing up was an odd experience.

Nineteen years of living. Now my gentle parents are starting to grow old, telling me I should get a job, or a girlfriend, or something to show that I'm an adult. That I no longer have to worry about the games, and that I can lose the worry I've been toting around for six years. I'm not going to die in an arena, I'm going to die in,lovely district four, where the air smells like the ocean and sand always seems to find its way into the oddest of places.