Introductions
♦ Diary entry: 23 July @ 1423 ♦
Do you believe in God? Frankly, I’ve had a lot of doubts. I’m not religious—I’m not even what some people (like you, maybe?) would call spiritual—but despite that, I do think I’ve found my god. Now, I need to say this before you get your knickers in a twist: I’m not talking about your God. I’m talking about my god. I want to be clear on that because of how this all happened.
I was fucking. And I was cumming—one of those orgasms that makes your ears ring. Totally filled, everywhere (and every way) I could possibly be, my nerve endings all raw, sensations overflowing, and suddenly it all came together in one deep throbbing vibration, and I felt it—this thing I’ll call my god—like my heart was beating for the whole world, and I screamed: “Oh my fucking god!” Actually, I think I screamed it three or four times. If you were in the same city block, you probably heard me. If you were in the same building, I’m sure you did. The guy who did this for me—to me? (I’m not sure which word to use)—was my Commander.
Okay, I know you just narfed your latte or diet coke or whatever it was. (Yes, I did that to you. Remember that for later.) But that’s how I think of him. If you can’t handle that shit, if you’ve never known a love that combined an endless firewalk with a swan dive off the 87th floor of the Empire State building, stop reading now.
Seriously. Walk away and put your trust in vibrators. We’re done here.
♦ ♦ ♦
Still with me? Excellent. But before we go any further, there’s a couple of things you have to know. I call him Cole, but that’s not his name. I’m not telling you his real name. Because you know about him. Everyone knows about him. But you don’t know him. Underneath the public armor, he’s nothing like the person you see on the news and read about on gossip sites. He’s the person you’ll read about here. I’m not protecting his identity because he asked me to, or because he can’t handle being stripped as bare as I’m going to. He can handle anything, but you have to have been his lover—or his enemy—to get the full meaning of that. So I’m not doing this for him: I’m doing it for me. I don’t want the face from the podcasts mixed up with the one I saw over me in moonlight. I don’t want the voice from his interviews confused with the deadliest whisper God ever put on this Earth telling me to cum, right in my ear. I don’t want what you think you know clashing with what’s true. I want you to see him as I saw him, hear him as I heard him, feel him as I felt him. Or there’s just no point to this.
And, yes, I’m a little bit selfish too. I’m not gonna share everything.
I’m not telling you my real name either because—in addition to paparazzi pics of us—there are lots of naked pics of me online and I don’t want you trying to find them and then feeling inadequate when you do. (Yes, I’m thinking of you, dear reader—that’s how I roll.)
So I’ve changed the names, invented places, messed with the dates and things didn’t always happen the way I’m going to tell you they happened. Yeah, basically, I’ve made a bunch of this up. Except the feelings.
Those are real.
Okay. Back to the original question: how do I feel about God now? (I can tell you’re dying to know.) Do I believe in her / him /them? Honestly, I still can’t say. But I sure as hell believe in him: my commander, my savior.
My “fucking” god.
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♦ Diary entry: 23 July @ 1513 ♦
I started out talking about god. Now I wanna talk about beauty.
You’re lucky if you’ve seen real beauty more than once or twice in your life. Okay, put that in caps: Real Beauty. The kind that makes you forget to breathe. If you’re patient and observant (and lucky), you can find it. And I hope you do.
I live with it.
Real (True) Beauty is my sister.
Now, I’ve lost you again, haven’t I? You’re probably thinking: “She said she’s making shit up.” So I must be making this up.
No.
I’ll start simple, cuz you’re not gonna believe me anyway. My sister has white skin, blue eyes and black hair. By white I mean the palest creamy alabaster, if alabaster could live and breathe. By black I mean the glossy color of a raven feather in the sunlight. And her eyes are iceberg blue: the color you see at an iceberg’s center in those Antarctica videos. Y’know, the ones where they sat around for months waiting for the perfect iceberg in the perfect light so they could get that shot? That blue.
She has a heart-shaped face, Botticelli lips, and a smile that could light up Paris. They invented the phrase “a heart the size of the whole outdoors” just to describe my sister, and all the bitter that exists in the world can’t touch the sweetness of her soul.
Believe me now? Go on, shake your head. I understand. You haven’t seen her. If you did, you’d go home and write crazy-mad poetry all night that would embarrass you in the morning.
Let me put it this way: my sister is living proof that God is not jealous, no matter what they tell me the Bible says. No jealous god could allow someone as beautiful as my sister to exist.
I’m her identical twin.
I am nothing like her.
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♦ Diary entry: 23 July @ 1700 ♦
Now that I talked about beauty, let’s talk about truth.
The truth is my sister is dying. It’s a rare condition and I’m not going to offer a clinical description here—it doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that it’s already turned her thyroid into a sponge, nuked the beta cells in her pancreas (they produce your insulin), and now it’s eating her liver alive.
She won’t see 30.
The condition is genetic. It killed our mom and, indirectly, our dad. (An all-booze diet does that.)
There was a 50% chance the ova that became us carried the lethal gene. And when that ova was promoted to zygote and decided two was better than one, we both should’ve gotten a copy of that gene. That’s how it works. We’re identical.
But not that way. I didn’t get the gene. Nothing is eating away at my organs. I’m not dying.
The doctors called it a miracle.
I call it fucked up.
Maybe there’s a jealous god after all.
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