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'Siamese Twins'

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One not-so-well-known-fact is that Robert Smith is afraid of flying.

On Our Old School:

You see purple hair everywhere nowadays, but back then it was so uncommon. Fetch me my pipe, my slippers. Were we really any different? I still have to think so, yes.

On The Future:

We have a lot to look forward to, I don't mean to sound like such a glum goat. Florida beaches, new releases, Saturday night dinners at the strip-mall Mexican down the road. It will take years to sample the entire menu. The number one, the number two, the number three ... they go all the way to fifty-seven, plus fajitas. And when the wife and I have tried them all, down to the last chimichanga, well it'll all be news to Eleanor. Fascinating to observe how her favorites will change as the years stretch away into a glistening distance of salt crystals. Monster margaritas, before, during, and after. Cheap vodka, well-aged and cold, tonight.

On College:

You would have liked it. No curfew, and drugs like you could never believe. I played bass in a band called "28G," the "G" for grams or gauge depending on your angle. We made our way around the southeast in a Chevy van powered on pure hate. Oh you bet your sweet dead ass people still remember. I just moved a box of first pressings and T-shirts that had been collecting dust in the attic on eBay, $126 dollars for the lot. We're putting it towards a triangular incidentals desk from IKEA. eBay, IKEA, you're not missing very much in that department.

On Role Models:

Once when I was securing morphia a dusky scoundrel stuck a .380 between my eyes, then relieved me of all my coin. Strangely enough, his nom du crime happened to be "three-eighty." Of course this occurred long ago, deep within the bowels of The Terrence Homes, are any of you old enough to recall old Terra Ho'? Simon? Drissana? "So, what do you guys think about old Gatsby? What might it mean to lose a dream? Boys? Girls? Anyone?" I pick at the ironies like a scab.

On Your Blood:

Your sister did a drive-by and dumped the towels in my front yard. This was days later and they still weren't dry. She always was a belching cooz, your sister. Pardon me for saying so. Forgive and forget, that's the accepted line, but I'll never forgive her for that. My poor parents thought I had lost my mind for wanting to keep them, hauled me off to Charter-Peachford that very day. I hadn't lost my mind, I just couldn't stop thinking how that was just about all the blood that had flowed through your body, every last little drop. Years later I learned that my father burned them in the backyard.

On Teenage Lust:

The fondest memories I have are of us doing it in my basement room, can I go ahead and tell you that? A bottle of Barton's Blue Label, incense and candles, burning up the stereo with Joy Division, Gun Club, the Cure. Old Cult, when they were love not metal. Sex beats, pawing like tigers in the bouncing light, your slick body thrumming under mine. Later we would smoke Djarums, watch the shadows race across the walls.

On Teenage Monogamy:

I've often thought it funny how dreadfully faithful we were to one another. The teenage lover, in her deepest heart, desires that the beloved be not only faithful, but entirely committed to the bond of romance. In many ways, it is a form of possession ... And so bourgeois, in light of all the middle-class strictures we were so busy chipping away.

On Suicide:

Don't expect an invitation to the funeral if the family blames you for the suicide. Can any one person cause a suicide? I have to think no. I don't have another choice, Erin.

On Halloween:

We buried our box and made a pact to return in twenty years, no matter where, no matter who, no matter what we are, but I know we'll still be together, I know the moon, I know the stars, I know the sky. ... Hannah? What do you make of this?

On Your Last Night Alive:

We decided to trip for the Halloween party. Sugar cubes, sodden and amber with acid. By the time we arrived the limbs were spiraling away from the trees in golden ratios and it was nearly impossible to speak. We didn't need to speak. Staring across the bonfire into each other, the whites of your eyes threaded with spider webs, white face paint, black lipstick, red blood. How beautiful you were. The dry ice billowed from the punch bowl, and our music warped and echoed on high through the skeletal branches. A record cold that Halloween, but we huddled saucer-eyed, flushed and sweating. I thought, give me a cigarette, then you were handing one to me. I thought we'll walk away from this together soon, and we did. Not quite soon enough though.

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