Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Homo-depot

I live with a set of twins. They’re male homosexual artists. I have heard people call them the 'fashion twins.' when people ask me where I live, I say 'I live with the twins,' and they reply with 'you live with the twins?' I did not realize they had such a godlike status until I started answering that question. It's interesting to watch the novelty of it go to their heads, like it must have their whole lives. They each wear black and gold, or alternating black and white mesh, always above black dress shoes or boots. They, and all of their friends, once became unmanageably angry when I mentioned in a joking manner that they were a kind of 'hipster.' they are hipsters, but that’s just it- that's who they are, they embody the subculture, begin it- not emulate it. Funny paradox, identical originals. I fear they sometimes forget they're originals, follow each other in safety, subdue their own individuality, become what they hate- trouble. One is nice and very maternal, the other is also nice, but more sarcastic and edgy. One has round softer features, the other harsh and angular. They are together always. They have begun to collaborate recently; they are generating three-dimensional digital copies of themselves, joined at the back, work on it constantly. Some sort of performance piece most likely. They fight. I have never seen siblings together, because I don't have any. They antagonize each other, and feed off each other’s hostility in the most toxic way. It pains me to be in the room or hear them in the bitter state of petty argument, just like watching my parents before they were divorced: pure terrible. I will not miss it.
The maternal one just delicately burped in the other's direction, and smiled. The edgier one hit him. They enjoy it. Enjoy hurting each other. I don't understand it.
They’re black clad posse is cultish and disgusting. I wish the twins weren't as associated with them; they seem like such empty cruel insecure people. I don't see why they need that kind of weakness in their lives, they are worth so much more. All the parties they throw, when they have friends over- I feel dirty with them. And when the group is all together, they change; individually, they seem to be potentially nice, kind, good and interesting people- but together, they become rude, exclusive, boring unkind cruel people- they give each other the power to be bad. Its a fear and power game to them. I hate them.
The edgier one just dedicated a song to the maternal one. He said, 'this song is dedicated to you. It's called, I don't like you anymore.' this is constant. More than often it is funny and uplifting, but when it becomes malicious and cruel- is it worth it anymore at that point?
They cut each other’s hair every three weeks. I watch them. They die each other’s hair more frequently. Every night before they go out to a party, a gallery, some fellow black clad posse member's humble abode, I watch them frantically dress, relying completely on the other and often myself for advice. I love it when one comes to me asking if something looks right, I like knowing I can advise such sophisticated fashionistas. Their wardrobes correlate and differentiate in the most peculiar and interesting ways, that I find myself wanting to diagram each detail, photograph what they wear each day for a month. Add it all up into one final peach of a truth.
I am secretly, brimming with anticipation to discover the truths concerning their mental demeanors, weaknesses, ways in which they rely on each other- the health of the relationship. I not only care about them, but also slowly have become fascinated by their unusual co-existence. I moved in with them having never really spoken to them. Just as I am leaving I realize I am deeply interested in them as people.
We are all moving into separate apartments tomorrow. The twins of course are living together.

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