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Haslan Senai

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About Haslan Senai

  • Rank
    Fresh Faced


    Brandon J. Boyd (Model)
  • RACE
  • JOB
    Archaeological Researcher
  • 'SHIP:
    Los Angeles, CA

Profile Fields

  • Primary
    Haslan Senai
  • Typist's Interests
    Urban Studies & City Planning, Afro-Futurism, Comic Books, Skateboarding, Urban Agriculture, Underground Hip-Hop, Blues music, Ranchero Music, Sitar Music, (I think it's apparent I just love music)
  • Typist's Role Play History
    Started off as a hormonal Pre-teen that immersed himself in RP sink or swim style at the Red Dragon Inn Chatroom on AOL back in 2000. I sunk a lot of times, until I began to write credible characters. My first character was a Super Saiyan Jedi (let that sink in)... so that says a lot, but I now write realistic, modest, dark characters that really engage the politics of any storyline I'm in. I'm trying to find my niche in Political Science Fiction, which is how I ended up here 16 years later, evolving from mostly Modern Realistic storylines to Fantasy/Sci-Fi.
  • Role Play Sample
    Rhythm in his wrist ceased as his fork laid stationary along the rim of his plate. His eyes lifted reluctantly as if his eyelids halted the motility of his gaze. How his shoulders rose and fell so squarely indicated his contribution to the stiff social climate that he fell under the weather of. The broad margins that were his lips broke their seal as he carried out the pathway of his coarse, but lulling voice, "Read a lot of papers on the economy. Figured I needed to learn to crunch numbers before numbers crunched me." As he affixed the knot of his solid dark green tie that was held in place by a gold clip at its median along his black-on-black plaid silk dress shirt, he felt a pins-and-needles esque sensation from Syleena's glare. The occular rivalry between the charades they played with their eyes were practically audible to the body language of the other two that sat adjacent to them. Syleena and Shante only spent a quarter of the day in the residence of the man who they learned to be his father over the past year. However, he felt the cost of life in the group home system could never be recouped. He clearly went back on the verbal and physical caveats his wife gave him about visitor's etiquette throughout the duration of black bands of asphalt roads that went on for what seemed like an eternity before they yielded their rental car in the affluent Garden City of Fair Lawn, New Jersey.

    Grace saved face with a hesitant smile behind the flute glass of white wine she ingested before she continued, "That's wonderful, Shante. I've always been into economics as I feel they're inherent with political science. You city planners and us political scientists need to collaborate more often. Understanding the economics of public goods is a crucial theory to know." Leonard's lean and lofty stature erected upright in his seat as his succession of nods followed right after Grace's words. His skin definitively reflected the saturate shade of chestnut and his voice was baritone with a distinguished clarity that was clasically conditioned through his workplace protocol as a Medical Doctor, "Most certainly, but there's always the tragedy of the commons with a public good, once one person's consumption delays the access and social mobility for another person. That's been the conflict with social medicine as well. The public option is ideal but people fear that loss efficiency and quality they may get with a private good." Leonard's voice was stifled by the barrage of salad he continuously pushed past his lips until he mustered his breath between a swallow, "That's good, son. You know..your lovely wife, and my daughter in-law, Syleena? told me about you helping people in New Orleans get reverse mortgages. It's a big deal you know.." Leonard's eyes took flight across the table, lining his pupils as best as he could to compromise his son in a stalemate of eye contact.

    Shante's blinks were still emphatic as ever, monitoring the man inevitably wide-eyed as he sat there. His hands coped in how they nested in their fold upon his black slacks beneath the table. The social stimuli that riddled the air caused his active conscious to succumb to an anxious level of adrenaline that caused his head to swim. Each breath he made between pronouncing his words felt like the air resisted against his lips, "It ain't a thing...really. Home is where the heart is, Leonard, as long as that heart ain't available for collateral.." It was as if his face lost an element of dimension or perspective to it, just like how flatly he ended that last sentence. His eyes averted to the grandfather clock that was situated to the rear of where the living room was in the in the distance.

    Grace, in a delayed shot of breath, "Hm. I've got Georgia on Mind. Syleena dear, would you love to assist me with the Peach Cobbler?"
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