fuckin hate the law

FA has gone demented. She thinks I stole her eyebrow, when really I was only borrowing it to cover up a gaping patch of no-hair on my scalp. It got singed off last night when I was roughing up some street urchins for milk-money and new shoes. Apparently a novelty-sized lighter is not the best weapon. But anyway, thats beside the point. The point is FA is selfishly depriving me of what is a SHARED bank of bodily parts/quaffs, as defined by our family lawyer, Shniztel-Frugen (he lives in a dirty hovel in Poland and has been with our family for-evvvver). You may wonder why we had to go to a lawyer to legalise such a matter. Because FA's a selfish brat, thats why. And because last time she got half her arse sliced off in a freak water-skiing accident (i was sipping daiquiris at the time), she actually sliced off a bit of MY butt too. Thats prime real-estate. Apparently the doctors thought it was reasonable to merely shift some of the fat around from mine to hers, thus creating a smaller but evener effect. I told them to ROT IN HELL! THAT BUTTS MINE! Enter Shnitzel-Frugen (he smells funny) and 2 years later I have a tiny arse that makes it very difficult to sell myself for money/internet designs on William St. I FUCKIN HATE THE LAW. Except when it means that I get to borrow FA's eyebrow to restore my glorious locks.

So I stole it, what? No need to get all hepped up about it. To make sure FA doesnt do anything drastic, I decide to cut the phone line with her toenail scissors. FA's face falls mid-sentence. She was saying something like:

"Oh really Dr Shelley? So only one of us will...."

I missed the rest. Probably frickin useless like everything else FA says. We order pizza and FA tells me her dream about some dude called Steve. I put her under hypnosis and steal her money. I so BADLY need a lackey, forget the creative part. I hang some trinkets and key rings off FA, thus making her look like a fashionable over-sized satchel. Time to go find myself a sidekick, before this DR SHELLEY thing gets serious.

trouble in paradise

I wake parched and covered in welts with a faint taste of vomit in my mouth.
AN must have indulged in a little Siamese twin drink-spiking again. How many days have I missed, where are my clothes and jewellery? Such questions no longer seem abnormal to me, such is the frequency of AN's "me time", as she likes to call it. Sitting up and stumbling weakly to the bathroom, AN's still-sleeping body dragging downwards from my shoulder, the name 'Steve' swoops curiously through my mind. Steve.... Who is Steve? I manage a fleeting image of a dark-haired man sitting in front of a computer screen full of visual treats, and a lumpy feeling of both hope and disappointment before my morning haze overwhelms it. Strange...
Splashing my face, I look into the mirror. Pale and splotchy as al.... what the fuck? There's an eyebrow missing.
I shake AN furiously.
"Wake up you fucking cow! What the hell have you done?"
AN remains motionless but a small smirk flicks across her mouth.
I look again at my asymmetrical reflection.
"This is going too far! My one beauty, my small prettiness, gone! I hate you, hate you!!!!!!!"
I heave my detested twin down the stairs towards the telephone.
"I'm not joking AN, I'm calling Doctor Shelley."
At this she's suddenly awake and responsive.
"Oh no you're not!"
"I am. 24 years is long enough. I can't take anymore of this. I'm arranging the separation."

the days pass...

and still barren soils. 'FA' cultivates psychotic delusions that I like to watch her orgasm face, and runs round showing it to everyone before i can "steal it from her". Meantimes, I try to cultivate my own private expression of ecstasy, using old coconuts as test dummies. They come out looking very much like freakish voodoo masks, and 'FA' finds them in our washing basket, only adding further vigour to her increasing paranoia. I start whispering "its all in your mind" in her ear 24-7 (an easy feat considering our constant close proximity) but she starts to think that its only the sound of the ocean, and is actually perversely pacified.

when 'FA' is sleeping, I put her half of my body onto a granny-trolley while I scour the streets, looking for an artistic type to kidnap. I mean, befriend. I try the mean Rue's of Paris, but all I find are greasy crepe stands and a few mute humpbacks. While the humpbacks have a down'n'out charm that is in keeping with creative types, they don't seem to understand what Im saying (or wont respond), and actually a few run screaming when they spot the bundle in my granny-trolley. Talk about calling a pot a kettle. Or some such.

back at home, and feeling sleepy, i pen a scratchy letter to the Easter Bunny, entitled: Where the fuck are you, bitch?! I leave out some acid-lettuce and then turn in for the night. At least I, Siamese Twin 'AN', am doing my job.

Day 2, or 3...

Being a Siamese twin is hard. Aside from the usual "I want to go this way", "Well I want to go this way" daily argument, whenever I have sexy sleepovers 'AN' is right there just waiting to giggle at my orgasm face. You'd think she'd have the decency to feign sleep, or maybe read a book , but no, she's a starer. And quite perverted. I have a sneaking suspicion that this whole "search for a creative director" thing is no more than yet another of her crazy stunts to lure men into our bed. Notice she's already slipped the word 'lackey' in place of 'director'? Just wait, soon it'll be 'tool', and then she'll quietly present you with a business card stating that you are the Creative Sexual Services Slave (CSSS) of Fullstop. I of course have nothing to do with these heinously immoral ploys of hers, and am merely dragged along by our unfortunately shared left/right arm. Yeah sure, sometimes I take photos, but that's for art.

Siamese twin code: "FA" (yes, like the deodorant).

Day One. Prospects Dim.

When we began this Thing (capital 'T' used to indicate its blob-like nature) we thought it would be easy. We congratulated ourselves for doing (or rather, planning to do) something other than drinking beer and complaining about our loser lives. We created an email account (a hugely technical undertaking, obviously) and a blurb. We emailed people. We even snared a mentor (who graciously gave us the name, 'fullstop') and a few muses, who are as yet unaware of this accolade. Then we sat back and waited. Surely, such things get created purely from the power of imagination, rather than through hard work and effort?

Three months later, and the answer has only just dawned on us: "umm, NO!" Perhaps it is appropriate, then, that the theme of our first issue is 'Kidult' - half child, half adult. Much like children stubbornly clinging to the idea of the 'Easter Bunny', we have wilfuly ignored the reality of starting an online journal. The reality of starting anything. Unless we are prepared to kill all the opposition in a bloody machine gun war, we may have to, like, do a few things. The first of which we have called: Operation Find Creative Lackey. I mean, Director. Yes, ultimate power awaits us. I mean, you. Sound tempting?

Well, that said, I'm going to go lurk around the front of trendy cafes taking stealthy shots of anyone carrying a laptop/oversized folder/expensive ink pens/large ID card reading "Certified Creative Director*". Gotta start somewhere!

Over and out,

Siamese Twin Code Name: 'AN'

*Previously recognised internationally under the banner of Certified Creative Lackey and Coffee Maker (Level 4).