Love writing biographies for forums! Mine's more of a pre-Dead End snapshot, so I included my shorter profile bio at the end, as well as a handy rundown. I've really had a lot of fun RPing with everyone so far, looking forward to more!

It was the meth that really did it for Katie. Sure, the hard drinking, the weed and coke in her formative years didn't help; Neither did all the statutory rape masquerading as the oldest profession. Three years of that alone might drive a lesser girl out of their mind but there was something even worse, something so insidious about that first snort short-circuiting her fifteen year old brain. It was nothing she could ever replicate again, although she tried. She smoked her throat raw, stabbed her veins into ruin and melted her brain. Hair and teeth fell out, skin scabbed over and shredded and even then, it wasn't enough.

But she still had to work; the johns got worse and worse the shittier she looked and soon it was a volume business. Soon, months flashed by uncounted. She sped away from her debts in buses and dangerously hitched rides, supplemented her income with quickie strip club jobs until she got fired. She was all cheap wigs and erratic behaviour and the frat boys don't like looking at twiggy girls falling down, no sir. Not to mention the stints in jail, never for more than a night or two, but enough for the other girls to start calling her Crookie. Enough that it stuck, and Katie faded away.

The rolling blackouts started somewhere in the south. First as days, soon weeks and once, months. Must have been two or three months, maybe more, and she woke up in someone's very pretty house on some very pretty clean sheets. The girl in the mirror didn't match the last glimpse she remembered from a rearview; she had hair, yellow-blonde; she had teeth, shiny white teeth without chips or holes; her skin was clear and pale; and her collarbone, her ribs and hips didn't jut out quite so far.

She was like a ghost in an empty house. Fridge stocked, closet full of clothes and shoes that fit her, but weren't hers. Couldn't be hers, since everything she had fit neatly into one little duffel bag. Even that was nowhere to be found. There was a notebook on the kitchen counter, a neat clean list of goals, wishes and dreams. In her own handwriting. And an envelope with a couple thousand dollars neatly tucked underneath it. That kept her going for a few months, clean and sober but aimless and bored, too curious about her blackout months and her invisible benefactor to be content.

And that number one goal nagging at her: hold a steady job. Hell, she could do that. She'd done it before, done it since she was twelve years old. Clothes pawned, new makeup, new shoes, a tan, and the new look so she could call herself an escort now. Not just a whore, but an escort. Except her brain still itched with what it knew best, with aching want for that rush of pleasure. Just once more, just to see if it still worked.

It must have, since she woke up in a grimy asylum in a town she'd never been to before. Still, plenty of money tucked into her bra to keep her going for a little while, keep her away from the grossest of johns, keep her picky. And the place isn't so bad, not on the surface; boys her own age who don't take her for a dirty whore right away, not unless she wants them to. Maybe even a relationship to be had, even though she has no idea how to go about that. Back to the old triad of weed and coke and booze for now, since she hasn't made acquaintance with the other meth-heads, avoiding them at all costs with their toothless grins and pinched faces, even though her brain works just the same, jumpy and unpredictable.

And the itch is still there, ever-present, low frequency hum in the back of her messy, dirty head...

Profile bio: There has never been anything particularly unique about Crookie. She was born in a back-alley to a crack-whore who sold her while her eyes were still blue, expecting them to change; they never did, but her mother would never know this. Crookie's first decade was spent in relative comfort with a suburban family who were overjoyed to have a child but blood has it's ways. She learned she was adopted at 11, ran away at 12 and found out how to make money on the fly.

Whoring came as naturally as addiction, as naturally as theft and knife-wielding and making herself up. It's just supply and demand and she slips easily into whatever role she has to to make that money and get that fix.

But after eight years, it's all starting to take a toll on her mental health. When drugs are unavailable or unsatisfactory, she is typically drunk.

Quickie stats ('cause damn this is getting long):
Full name: Katherine Jane Silvansky, but called Crookie.
Age: 20
Height: 5' 4"
Weight: 107 lbs
Race: Probably white, but no idea about her father.
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Brown, bleached but rooty.
Skin color: Fake and bake tan.
Distinguishing features: Monroe piercing on the left.
How does she dress?: Slutty. Dressed to pick up. Dressed to tip over in impossible heels.
Criminal history: Minor possession charges, a few nights in the tank for public intoxication.
Characteristics: Friendly enough but her meth-fried brain tends to shoot off on tangents and render her unable to control her mouth at times. Increasingly low impulse control, so if she sees something or someone she wants, she's likely to take a stab at it in a fairly tactless way. Similarly, if she sees something she doesn't like, she'll let you know. Loudly. Sometimes with her fists. Attracted to men and women, she's enjoying monetary freedom for the first time in her life, which leads to the shocking new world of relationships and sex for pleasure. The latter, she's a pro at, but the former is a total mystery.