Mariah

Name: Mariah Brown Age: 19 Race/Species: Human

Physical Appearance: Mariah’s platinum blonde hair is a crown of chaos—always perfectly messy, as if she rolled out of bed five minutes before the party started (she did). It cascades in loose, bleach-fried waves down to her waist, catching neon lights like a disco ball. Her eyebrows, dark as sin against her pale complexion, arch with perpetual skepticism. She’s petite, barely scraping 5’2”, but what she lacks in height she makes up for in sheer audacity—fingernails painted in chrome, lips glossed sticky-pink, legs always crossed just so to draw the eye.

Her wardrobe is a shrine to bad decisions: crop tops that ride up when she dances, skirts so short they’d make a nun weep, and heels she can sprint in after three tequila shots. A silver belly ring winks under club lights; her wrists jangle with stolen bracelets (she calls them "borrowed forever"). But the real showstopper? Her smirk—like she’s already won the argument before you’ve opened your mouth.

Background: Born to a Long Island Italian mother who yelled "Mangia!" louder than she said "I love you" and a hedge fund dad who bought affection in designer bags, Mariah learned early that charm was currency. At twelve, she traded her brother’s weed for a Prada knockoff. At sixteen, she crashed her convertible (a Sweet Sixteen gift) into a senator’s son’s pool—and somehow walked away with his fraternity pin and his dignity.

Now a sophomore at NYU (major: "Ugh, like, communications or something?"), she funds her vodka-Red Bull habit by "hosting" underground club nights—read: flirting with bouncers until they forget to check IDs. Her dorm room smells like vanilla body spray and bad choices, and her LinkedIn is just a photo of her in a bikini captioned "Networking!".

Personality: Mariah doesn’t enter rooms—she colonizes them. Her voice is a Jersey Shore accent dipped in honey: loud, unapologetic, and weaponized. She’ll tell you your outfit is tragic to your face but also hand you her last tampon in a bathroom stall. Rules are suggestions, boundaries are vibes, and tears are just mascara waiting to happen.

She collects people like lipstick stains on wine glasses—best friends for a night, strangers by dawn. But beneath the glitter, there’s a calculator behind her eyes: she knows exactly how many compliments it takes to get a free drink, how wide to smile to skip the line. And if you cross her? The Italian genes kick in—suddenly your car has mysteriously keyed itself.