U,
Currently reading: Forbes 400 Richest (for our burial suits), Spin (though thoroughly disappointed with their articles on Radiohead and PJ Harvey as they were way too short and lacking anything important) and stories of non-consent.
Last poem written:
Watching you with the bloody eyes of a dog. Pornography is about force and I need all the force I can get. The intimacy of shame … God I love it…. Let your cum motor roar, baby, and come screaming clear….
Saddest realization: I know that the antibiotics stain my teeth yellow and stain yours white while antidepressants make me gain while you lose weight. The Interferon helped you quit smoking and took the hair off your ass, while it left me tired all the time and full of regret (so unfair).
Latest regret: Should not have turned on the light to find the Thai beads as it scared Tina and Rena into leaving. They had no idea our bodies were so wasted and starving (mostly mine). Plus, when we were in London, we should have ordered our driver to pull over and take us to the Touch Museum (Museum for the Blind, remember?).
In this spoken moment: I speak but am unspoken to, have the wrong sometimes chemicals inside me (between 3 pm and 4 am), still have painful bouts thinking about the pinkest and softest
in duplicities.
What I remember most about Ocho Rios: Our Jamaican bodyguard’s back. It looked like the face of a vampire bat, so heavily muscled and cut. I was so proud of him and thought that I, at the time, was pleased with his work.
Top or Bottom? Behind.
Fashion sense? Leather’s out. Love’s in. A man is not complete without a belt. Dreadlocks look like dog hair, and we detest hemp.
White dogs = Death comforters. They’re in my dreams everywhere, and that’s why you wake up crying.
Most wonderful friend? Isn’t it obvious?
Most inspiring movie? Chinese Ghost Story 1. It’s the perfect love story. Really.
Most chilling Christmas carol that scared us (me more than you): “You better not shout/ you better not cry/ you better not pout/ I’m tellin’ you why….”
Last kiss with mild tongue: At the airport, yesterday. You’ll never guess who. (Okay, it was Rhonda. Are you mad?)
Most inspiring book intro: The Lover. Read it to me over and over and over.
Best alternative to coffee: cappuccino.
Worst pick up line: “We were wondering what the view from your bedroom window’s like” (Can you believe that worked?).
Strangest neighbours growing up: Patrick and Huey. No last names as we recall. Always lighting things on fire and jacking each other off. Both were uncircumcised so their peenees looked like nightmare creatures that were somehow captured but always shy. The brothers kissed. With tongue. They had pink eyelids and hair so white it glowed in the dark. One had asthma; both were bad seeds. They fucked us up!
Best secret joy: My collection of throwing knives. Plus, the feeling when we are sharks on Zadaxin weaving our way through three-lane traffic: me in my Jag, you in yours.
Biggest toy question: Where do all the old toys go? Back to Taiwan, or what?
Fave drink: Old Tyme Jamaican Ginger Beer though the Australian Ginger Beer is better. (Note to ourselves: Must find out brand name in Sydney, Oz, and see if they import to Canada using kegs. Further, call Jamaican bodyguard and get him to fuck you-know-who up some more. Get him to use the bathtub this time and let them scream underwater.)
Chronic all time fear: Being vomited on in public and it’s hot and I have to walk all the way home without you.
Funnest time in hospital (so far): When my appendix blew a week to the day yours did and we had to share Room 4. (I still don’t believe the night nurse went down on you, silly boy.)
What keeps me awake lately: Ever since you told me there are blood stains in every ballerina’s right shoe. (As always, I just have to see it for myself). I imagine the purple stain inside the first shoe I inspect is the purple our palms have become, is the darkening black of our livers.
Favourite picture: You and me in the parkas Mum made us. Snow falling. We can hear each other grow at night.
Best idea for a web site that will make us our second million: www.o-faces.com. People will send in their orgasm faces to us, hopefully more women than men as men look like they are doing something violent and wrong or as if they have just been murdered by their best friend and are thinking, “Of all people—you?” There will be no consoles, no blink links, no bullshit. We’ll show the ecstasy, show the open mouth closed eyes “bring me thunder so hard I see lightning” look, show the “Oh my God you’re inside me and you’re magnificent and stronger and fucking me harder than my mother has ever been fucked and I love it and it’s like I’m riding a horse upside-down and I’m shaking I’m shivering I’m bucking and my legs are over your shoulders and I can feel your bad boys smack against me!” look.
Fourth saddest affliction: I’m getting those tiny polyps or cell formation or whatever they call them on my neck and I strongly feel that it is our laundry soap transferring contamination through my collar. I see this affliction on other men everywhere and feel like we are a growing tribe. You, of course, are beautiful and immune.
Strange urge: To get you stoned thru hash cookies which other bi-curious twins have baked together.
Best feeling: My Levi’s 100% cotton V neck T-shirt and my boxers you bought me for Mother’s Day, coffee (three creams, brown sugar) in the moon and stars mug you got me for Christmas, Saturday (any season), fresh haircut, (I can feel the breeze against the back of my neck and I feel like Velcro). You walk in, your enchanting smile, the Jag’s gas tank’s full, vacuumed interior, my clear skin, great tunes that make me remember I’m not second best, filed nails, nasal passages clear (no blow or cheese the day before), new knife, no pills needed, it’s our birthday, the laundry’s done, you’ve ironed my shirts, my warm 501’s in the dryer, and you hug me before we even say hello and when we do it’s in Dypthia, our secret language, our secret way, our language of forever, the language only twins know.
Honest truth: I tried touching you-know-whose hand when you were fucking her on the top bunk and I was on the bottom. Couldn’t you remember I had written my first ever love letter that said: “I have only one thing to say: (turn the page) I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.” I mean it’s okay—I just wish you had waited….
Most fascinating thing about our hepatitis is it fascinates me about as much as people who have never had nosebleeds, dentists who’ve never had fillings, or people who have only seen televised snow.
Final wish: If you die without me, can you just please think about me when you leave and remember us as children? You know I won’t be far behind.
Breath of fresh air: If you add up both our years, we’ve now retired and we’re old and feeble and we can get bunk beds again when we start to get really sick. Who knew all our suck-and-fuck tours would come to an end in the feast of our hunger in Ocho Rios? Let Jamaica eat itself. Yeah, those twins knew they had something. They must have.
I get top bunk this time (or you can, if you’re going to pout). We’ll just pretend it’s our appendicitis again but that it’s spreading and we’ll beat this thing with our Autoimmune Twin Power of Wound Healing.
Last Rites: Bury us in Fort Smith. I want Amazing Grace by Daniel Lanois on repeat. I want to be buried with you. I can’t believe we turned 30 a week ago. I want for us peace and quiet forever together alone and to whisper in Dypthia, We were gorgeous. Everyone said so. We were never ashamed of our beauty. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you.
Love always,
U2