Your name is DAVE STRIDER. You’re nineteen years old, but you can only really remember about three of those years.
Ok, that’s a lie: you have some brief memories of the sixteen before them. But names, faces - natta.

You grew up literally on the streets of Houston, Texas after being born into a less than frivolous lifestyle with your older brother. You got diddly squat of an idea where or who your parents were; you just know they’re gone. Your bro stuck around the longest but hey, let bygones be bygones.

You sorta remember having a lot of BLOOD on your hands. Can’t for your life remember WHY.

For a while you were HOMELESS. You kinda liked being HOMELESS, actually. You’re more than comfortable sleeping on the street to this day.
That said, you’re still a little FLIGHTY about living arrangements. You resign yourself to be in and out of mismanaged family settings from habit alone.

You have a bit of a MEMORY PROBLEM. The word “bit” is a GROSS UNDERSTATEMENT.
But it’s a bummer. You don’t like talking about a rapidly mind-deteriorating mental illness, who the fuck would?

You like CARTOONS and drawing COMICS. You’re practically twelve. You’re also an avid fan of PARKOUR and SKATEBOARDING.
When you’re not pretending to have some kind of PHYSICAL ABILITY, you enjoy PHOTOGRAPHY unironically and have a passionate interest in MUSIC and ART. Specifically PAINTING. You’re the hand and mind behind a lot of ANONYMOUS STREET ART.
You can’t just SAY THAT, though. You lose a lot of CRED that way yo.

You’re in pixel form too.

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