BANISHED BOOKS

Sometimes I subject myself to punishment. Not in a masochistic way. There’s no gratification. In this case, it was to affirm a sad truth I already knew. 

 

I’d had a medical appointment last week on Vancouver’s Davie Street which was once the heart of the city’s “gay village.” That always seemed sad in and of itself. There’s never been anything pretty about the street. There were gay bars and gay businesses scattered among a hodgepodge of other establishments—a bakery that always seemed to have a lot of flies doing aerobatic loops, a hardware store that made mops and dustpans look especially dull, an overrated Greek restaurant that always had people lining the sidewalk. I lived in the area for a year or two and avoided most of the spots, not needing an apricot Danish, another toilet bowl cleaner or an instant, unanimous rejection at Celebrities as Crystal Waters sang “100% Pure Love.” The videostore was my most frequent destination.

 

The clubs are still there though I haven’t been in one in about a decade. The hardware store and bakery remain. Same for the Greek restaurant though I don’t think it draws the lines it once did.  The videostore is, alas, long gone. 

 

After my appointment, I should have headed east to begin the half hour walk home, but I paused and opted to go one more block in the other direction. Tucked away off Davie Street is Little Sister’s, a business I first knew from its previous location on the second floor of an old house on Thurlow Street. Back then, in the ’90s, it was a queer bookstore that always had people milling about, checking out books and each other. This was a place to be amongst other queers without having to order a drink. If no one made a move to take you home, you could at least leave with a work of fiction by Paul Monette, Armistead Maupin or a hot, new author, “hot” because he had a certain way with words, not necessarily on account of his photo on the back flap. 

 

The bookstore is very much part of gay history in Vancouver. It endured an ongoing battle with the Canada Border Services Agency which blocked the importation of various books the authority deemed obscene. Little Sister’s sued the government in 1990 and the case slooowly made its way through the court system until, a full decade later, the Canadian Supreme Court ruled in favor of the bookstore, stating the border agency had violated the Charter of Rights and Freedoms which protects against discrimination based on, inter alia, sexual orientation. 

 

A book once banned from entry
into Canada for delivery to
Little Sister's.

Also, of note, the bookstore had been smoke-bombed three times at its prior location, acts of intimidation that did not lead to the business shuttering. Thus, Little Sister’s was more than a place to buy a book by Maupin, or the blocked children’s book, Belinda’s Bouquet, or maybe even a titillating magazine. Its struggles reflected our own, as it trudged on despite hatred and discrimination. 

 

In 1996, the bookstore opened at its new location. Its doors being twenty steps back from the other businesses on Davie, patrons could take the back alley and park behind the store, never to be seen by pedestrians and drivers on the busy street. It seemed ideal as there were many more closeted queers at the time. (Yes, I always checked for a spot in the back first.) I clearly remember going to the store when it first opened. While its prior location had books stuffed in boxes, crammed everywhere with limited opportunities to prominently display anything, the new spot had rows and rows of beautiful shelves, of cherry wood according to my recollection. I remember thinking the rent to be much higher and the bookcases alone must have been a huge budget item in the re-lo plan. It was a stunningly beautiful space, a true showcase for queer lit that seemed to elevate the city and its gay ghetto, the otherwise lackluster Davie Street. 

 

That was long ago. Back in 2013, I blogged how much had changed. The bookstore, then named Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, seemed to retain the work “Book” in its sign as nothing more than a nod to the past. Gone were all the beautiful shelves. Gone were the books. The space was filled with those bright, cheaply made, Lycra and mesh short shorts and tank tops that are apropos for Pride parades, raves and not much else. There were prime displays of cock rings and dildos. Aside from a collection of greeting cards, I saw nothing to validate the word “Art” in the Little Sister’s sign either. It was a novelty store, a cross between International Male and a gay version of that ’80s mall standard, Spencer’s. A gay Barnes & Noble? Wishful thinking.

 

It’s that sort of thinking that made me opt for another walkthrough. I’d been buoyed in the past year by a new queer bookstore in Seattle. Seattle may be a UNESCO-designated  City of Literature, but surely Vancouverites didn’t just hike and build cock ring collections. We have just as much rain. Weren’t we readers, too? Couldn’t we enjoy in-person book browsing just as much? 

 

Hide and Seek: 
the book version

Hopeful, yes, but still I braced. I entered Little Sister’s Book & Art Emporium, empty at 10:30 on the weekday morning, and it was like passing through a time capsule. Sadly, from 2013, not 1996. Gaudy rainbow clothing plus a vast supply of lube, dildos and those ring things. Books? Yes, I found a few, seemingly hidden on plain shelves, first a few hundred used books, then “newer” books against another wall—one shelf poetry, one shelf memoir, four shelves of other nonfiction, four shelves for children, five shelves fiction. Strangely, the two display shelves with book covers fully on view were placed as a seeming afterthought at the bottom of the bookcase, level with my shoes. Bookselling was clearly not the draw. 

 

I walked out, disheartened and bookless. If the place even remains in business based on a consistent demand for cock rings, let it be a decade before I take another punishing peek.

 

 

RETIREMENT RETICENCE

I’m of that age. People around me are retiring. I’ll ease my auto-panic button by adding that these are early retirements. Early-ish. 

 

Those who know me probably view me as retired, too. I’m an in-betweener—not technically working but not qualified for full retirement. Seven years ago as of next month, I went to work on a Friday and, by Monday, I’d disappeared. My version of quiet quitting. I’d checked into a psych ward and, upon discharge seventeen days later, I was told by my psychiatrist I wouldn’t be returning to work. Not until the new year. Then, he told me not for the rest of the school year. Then, never.

 

Never has gone on now forever. I know that’s a way to view the word, but I startle myself every time I realize I haven’t worked since 2017.

 

What?!

 

I’d always been a dedicated, hardworking employee. Exemplary. Beloved. I got so much of my identity from being a teacher, then a principal. When my role vanished—POOF!—I couldn’t stop doing, striving, trying to be productive. I write seven days a week. I generally work through holidays. I neither want nor need a day off. I have accepted that I can’t re-enter the regular workforce, but I like the work I’ve created for myself. I have a hard time closing my laptop. When I do, I’m often reaching for a notepad or the back of a receipt, jotting down more ideas, sentences, sometimes just phrases that I must capture. My brain remains in overdrive. 

 

This may be, in part, due to the fact I’m bipolar. My mania is subdued compared to many who experience bipolar episodes. I never lose my sense of control, a trait that’s been better groomed through my experiences with an eating disorder. Yes, I have many labels. What I find magical is that each condition has its challenges but also meshes well with other conditions, somehow creating a fine balance. I could elaborate but, for the purpose of this post, the takeaway is that neither my mind nor my body can be still.  

 

That’s why the notion of retirement still makes me uncomfortable. I know there will come a time when, from the perspective of my school district and the federal government, I will officially be retired. It’ll affect my bank account and how medical matters will or won’t be covered. I haven’t researched this. Formal retirement remains several years away. I choose to keep the word and all its associations at bay, head in the sand, index fingers blocking both ears. La-la-la. I can’t hear you.

 

I’m unsettled enough seeing how some of my friends handle retirement. One, with whom I’m meeting for coffee later today, is seventy and has some chronic health issues that require maintenance routines that eat up hours of each day. Bummer. But, through all our discussions, I have a hard time piecing together how he fills all the remaining hours of the day. He plays the piano, he does a workout and then _____. Like me, he doesn’t have many social commitments. Also like me, his food prep time is minimal. He’s extremely routine-oriented and extraordinarily efficient. He’s not a reader. I’ve never heard him talk about a book. How do the days pass? I suspect there’s a lot of screen time. Not social media…he’s not on any platform. How much does he stream? How much does he nap? I get restless just thinking about all the downtime. 

 

The only person I remain in contact with from high school retired earlier this year. Once best friends, we’re Facebook “friends” now, a few messages exchanged each year. (I typically log off in a panic whenever someone sees I’m on FB and starts live messaging. I don’t like these go-nowhere chats that go on until—boop—they’re done, abruptly concluded without any sort of sign-off. Alas, “Sincerely” and “Yours truly” don’t align with Messenger, Facebook and text messaging.) 

 

After his first month as a retiree, this friend sent a Facebook post, sharing his observations about The Price Is Right. For some reason, this horrified me. TPIR was a go-to when I’d be splayed on the sofa, a blanket pulled over me, a tissue box on the floor, body achy, brain foggy, a rare sick day. Sadly, it was also regular viewing on August mornings when I was in high school in East Texas, the temperature outside already hitting 90, my friends still sleeping till noon. I was as lethargic as your average teen, extended periods of boredom seemingly developmentally required.

 

Does that part of adolescence return upon retirement. Is that why my friend tunes in for the Showcase Showdown? It’s unimaginable.

 

He has since done other classic retiree things, most notably going on two cruises. Much better than the daily drone of television but not my thing. Fair or not, I have some fixed images about cruises and none of them involve Julie, my cruise director, setting me up with a love that’ll last at least five days. I’m not very social so it shouldn’t matter that many cruises I hear about are filled with families, gays or retirees. I’d probably refuse the assigned dinner seating and eat in my room. A box of crackers and some yogurt suit me just fine. (Yes, that eating disorder of mine can complicate things but it can also simplify them.) 

 

My biggest issue with cruises is that lack of personal control. (That trait of mine again.) I don’t want to feel “stuck” asea. I don’t want to join the masses disembarking on cue, boarding buses or joining perfectly timed walking tours that ensure I’ll make it back to the ship on time to head off to the next tourist-primed destination. I like the freedom to skip over must-sees that don’t appeal to me and linger at quirky stops that don’t even register with the locals. Basically, I don’t want things to feel cut short or drawn out. If that means one destination instead of five ports of call, so be it. 

 

Lots of people I know LOVE cruises. So be it for them, too. I hope my high school bud fits in more cruises and, please, don’t let there be reception to watch The Price Is Right on ship.

 

The guy across the hall from me is also retired. When I first met his wife on the elevator, she said, somewhat derisively, “I’m Joyce. And my husband, who’s bald, is Hank. You’ll be seeing a lot of Hank.”

 

I wouldn’t be happy if I were bald Hank, his lack of hair the most notable identifier as per his wife of who knows how many years. 

 

But Joyce was right. I do see a lot of Hank. I hear him even more, the door to the hallway closing countless times a day as he heads out on another walk with his dog who announces “Walk Time! Walk Time!” every time its paws hit the hall floor. “Walk Time! Walk Time!”

 

Got it.

 

Like me, Hank is restless. Directionless, too, it would seem. He wanders. He takes trash down to the dumpster when the count reaches three items. Hank can do what he wants. That’s the perk of retirement. 

 

Both Joyce and Hank have held prestigious government jobs. I know this because I stumbled upon a couple of CBC articles about them. Nefarious business practices, awarding contracts to one another without noting a conflict of interest. Newsmakers, my neighbors. I think it’s another reason Hank enjoys retirement. 

 

What gets me about Hank is I’ve lived in the building, right across the hall, for two years and it’s still unclear whether he recognizes me. I’ve introduced myself. I’ve tried neighborly chitchat. Sometimes my hello goes unreturned. (Good god, can he hear me dueting with Adele from the hallway?!) Sometimes he talks but it’s never an exchange. I might offer a prompt and he’ll go with it. Weather. The dog. Weather again. 

 

I really suck at chitchat. 

 

But Hank sucks more. All chit, no chat. If I hop on the elevator from the lobby and he’s already in, he’ll hover his right hand over the button panel and say, “What floor?” Every time. I nod to the button already lit up. “4.” It’s news.  Our little Groundhog Day.  

 

Is it dementia? Honestly, I don’t think so. He’s on the condo board. Mr. Conflict of Interest helps make the big decisions about building operations and contributes to recommendations over how to spend tens of thousands of dollars on issues that must be prioritized. I’ve heard a very cranky Hank during AGMs on Zoom. He knows a thing or two and has opinions that are clear, if not always popular. Hank’s all there.

 

I just don’t register. It’s flabbergasting. Countless encounters. 

 

Gotta keep the mind active, as they say. Something beyond making decent armchair price estimates on Uncle Ben’s rice, a new recliner and an Acapulco trip package. Definitely something more than making sure the garbage cans in the condo are always empty.

 

Let official retirement bring no change to my writing habit. Let the sole perk be that I can switch from saying, “I’m on disability” to a more widely acceptable designation. So many people look forward to retirement. For me, it still looms and taunts.

 

A BUNT IN RESPONSE TO HOMOPHOBIA IN BASEBALL

So another highly paid jock gets caught using the F word. 

 

Faggot.

 

Double score for two F words.

 

“Shut up, you f#*%g faggot.”

 

I’m gay. I can use faggot. I can own it. I can repossess it from those who weaponized it to belittle, mock and humiliate.

 

Names will sometimes hurt me. 

 

In this case, the speaker was twenty-seven-year-old Boston Red Sox All-Star outfielder Jarren Duran, born and raised in California, most of his time growing up in Orange County. I provide his age because, by then, he’s supposed to have impulse control. I indicate where he grew up because, it’s a wealthier part of California with a lot of conservatives, causing it to lean red. But, still, it’s in f#%g California.

 

He should know better. Of course, he should.

 

The game was broadcast and his comment was heard while he was at bat. The words were directed to a fan. The choice words make me think it wasn’t a Red Sox fan. 

 

CHOICE words. Athletes are heckled all the time. Heck, they heckle one another. They know how to react and not react. 

 

His apology, not spoken, but delivered via the Red Sox powers that be:

During tonight’s game, I used a truly horrific word

when responding to a fan. I feel awful knowing how

many people I offended and disappointed. I apologize

to the entire Red Sox organization, but more

importantly to the entire LGBTQ community.

 

Our young fans are supposed to be able to look up 

to me as a role model, but tonight I fell far short of

that responsibility. I will use this opportunity to 

educate myself and my teammates and to grow 

as a person.

 

Yeah, sure. His words. 

 

“A truly horrific word.” Agreed. But I suspect he’s long embraced it. Never a problem. Got away with it. Probably got some laughs from his buds. 

 

“I feel awful.” Doubt it. Mad, probably. He got caught and now he’s serving a two-game suspension without pay. A slight ding to his bank account. The regular season is 162 games. His suspension equates to 1.2% of the season. 

 

“Young fans are supposed to be able to look up to me…” That statement unsettles my stomach. Not quite nausea. I’m too familiar we live in a society that idolizes jocks for nothing more than how they swing a bat or catch a football. One’s athleticism doesn’t necessarily align with intelligence, thoughtfulness, kindness or general goodness. Hitting home runs and catching pop flies should not be on the list of what makes a hero. When will we stop attributing hero status to skilled athletes as a default? 

 

I rolled my eyes when I first read the CNN headline. A jock uses a homophobic slur. I wasn’t going to click. This was not news in the sense of it being new. I checked the website the Advocate. Not a mention. Gays have been mocked by (some) jocks their whole lives. But the jocks-as-heroes concept peeves me so, yeah, I clicked. This is a perfect example as to why that status must be earned. 

 

“I will use this opportunity to educate…my teammates.” Um, please don’t. This is not a model mentor. What’s the lesson? If you say something homophobic, you lose pocket change and sit on a bench for eighteen innings. I don’t want Jarren Duran teaching anyone about LGBTQ respect and understanding. Yes, educate yourself, Mr. Duran. That’s enough.

 

I’m even irked the Boston Red Sox are donating Duran’s two days’ salary to PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians of Gays). It’s a worthy organization, but the harm from Duran’s statement is not directly to parents and friends. Giving the money to parents and friends seems like a bunt at best. The organization’s prepared statement for Duran apologized “to the entire LGBTQ community.” Why then didn’t the money get donated directly to a queer organization? The Trevor Project, for example, which works with LGBTQ+ youth who are feeling suicidal or in crisis, comes immediately to mind. The Matthew Shepard Foundation comes to mind as well. Maybe a local queer organization like the Boston Alliance of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Youth. I think the Red Sox media relations team has its own learning to do as well.

 

Do better, Mr. Duran. Same for the team. The education of teammates should not come from its All-Star f#*k-up, but from professionals who can teach, not just better behavior, but better understanding.

 

 

 

A SUDDEN SHIFT

I hate feeling off. 

 

I woke up fine. I got in a couple of decent writing sessions. Then I made the mistake of stepping outside. Immediately, my mood sank. I wanted a good cry. For nothing. 

 

I did not cry.

 

I am better able at keeping myself together now, even when I can’t shake the off-ness. 

 

It’s not just me. I sensed the sun was off, too. Something about the hue of light hitting the sidewalk wasn’t right, a little orange filtered in. I glanced up and the sun looked normal. It was the clouds surrounding it that had an unnatural grayness. Forest fire season, I told myself. There must be one with some bad air filtering this way. Early stages of any impact on the city. I hate when it gets worse, when the sun is reduced to an eerie red ball all day, when I breathe in smoky air. 

 

Stay away. Please.

 

On my way back from my road trip, I caught the smoky haze first in Redding, California, then in Bend, Oregon. Two different fires, the smokiness felt with every inhale in Redding but a distinct haze affecting skies in Bend, too. 

 

Stop following me.

 

I don’t think it’s forest fire fatigue that’s hitting me. I’m supposed to have accepted this new normal which has annually affected Vancouver’s summer skies since at least 2015. I haven’t. I’m bloody tired of the public and the politicians doubling down to fight any life changes and extra costs that may help the planet. If we treated this like a war, we’d all pitch in, we’d accept sacrifices. We’d see necessary changes to the economy. Instead, people deny the obvious. They put heads in the sand. Politicians fail to lead. Laws and regulations don’t change or are stricken by new governments, voted in to restore what was, planet be damned.

 

That could impact my mood. That could explain this off-ness. But I’m certain that’s not it. I’ve had the environment and people’s recalcitrance on my mind every day for years now. We need more Gretas. I need to be more like her. 

 

It’s more likely my mood suddenly dropped due to a personal haze, that which follows a travel adventure. I’d been gone four weeks, most of it on the Oregon and California coasts. Breezes and sunshine—the normal kind—every day. My mood usually dips after trips. But I still think that won’t hit until tomorrow when it’s the weekend and I don’t have as strict a writing schedule to occupy me. I really won’t have much of anything to occupy me. Even in regular times, I prefer my weekday work mode to the relative emptiness of Saturdays and Sundays. My travel dip awaits.

 

And so there it is. I’ve done my due diligence in scanning for causes of depression. It’s not linked to anything at all. So often, that is the case. I step out of my condo, my little protective bubble, and I realize I’m part of—or perhaps not part of—something bigger. I’m here, taken aback by a mood that can’t be explained away. Without a specific cause, it’s difficult to turn it around. I know not to fight it. Depression is a master at its own doubling down. I have to walk with it and through it. I will feel it until I don’t. 

 

I understand this is why some people may choose some sort of upper—alcohol, drugs, anonymous sex—as a temporary escape. The option of a quick, if temporary, escape may entice. I’m just not wired that way. A good thing in the long run though harder in the short-term. 

 

I’m down but I won’t go fetal in my bed. I’m not even rushing back to my bubble. (It’s already burst.) I sip on my oat milk latte in a café. I write this out, my formal acknowledgement. Yes, depression. I see you, I feel you.

 

For now, I am disconnected from everything around me. I am not liking this damn shift one bit. This is the hand I’ve been dealt for today, maybe longer. There is no other deck. I play it. 

 

Play. Funny word. Sometimes no fun at all. 

 

NO TWIN; NOT A WIN

At some point when I was in elementary school, my mother took a continuing education class at the high school to hone her sewing skills. 

 

Previously, she’d taken ceramics and I rather liked all the new additions to our home, from glazed frog toothbrush holders and a (now) kitschy orange lamp base (it was the ’70s) to a Christmas tree adorned with little plastic candles that lit up from the light bulb the tree sat on. There were SO MANY ceramic pieces.

 

My mom’s sewing creations got more personal. She started making clothes for my brother, my sister and me. I was too young—8 or 9—to have a strong fashion sense or to even name more than three labels…Levi’s, Lee and OP (Ocean Pacific). These were the days before OshKosh B’gosh, Baby Gap and even Garanimals. I might have appreciated my mom’s sewing if she’d gone with a different vision. After all, I absolutely abhorred clothes shopping. 

 

Unfortunately, my mother decided that, since she had two boys, she’d buy double the fabric and make the same t-shirts for both of us. It would be cute. We’d be like twins. 

 

The problem was we weren’t twins. I don’t know how my brother felt—he always seemed to go along with everything—but I was not okay with being a fake twin. I was THREE YEARS OLDER. I was more mortified than when Julie Andrews made matching clothes from drapes for all the von Trapps. Suddenly, “Sew, a needle pulling thread” seemed like it should be a banned lyric. 

 

It's possible this twinning trauma impacted how I wanted to dress whenever I had a boyfriend. We would not be matching. Not even for Halloween. (Why would I want to get in an argument over which Dr. Seuss character I was? I would be Thing 1 or no-Thing at all.) Fortunately, my boyfriends and I always had different styles. 

Only on rare occasions did clothing sameness become an issue. In the 90s, my L.A. boyfriend Gary and I both liked a new line of Girbaud clothing, with purple being the feature color. The new clothes had been my “discovery” as I was already a fan of Girbaud wear. We both liked a funky purple and black striped jean, but I called dibs and he settled for solid purple which I swear better suited him. While dating Daniel during the early months of COVID, he decided he wanted a Rains jacket like mine. When I prohibited him from buying the same color as one of mine, his eyes bugged out in surprise. Still, he complied. In both instances, I would never wear the similar item when my partner wore the “companion” piece.

 

Not twins. Not “the other half of me.” Not “you complete me.” We were two separate people with separate tastes, bodies and minds. Dating any proximation of a twin would have been a dilution of individuality and, well, symbolically incestuous. I wasn’t down with any of that.

 

That’s why I took note regarding two pop hits that have come out this year, each referring to a partner as a twin. One, “Down Bad” is by none other than Taylor Swift. I’m an unofficial Swiftie. It should come as no surprise I’m not big on joining things, but I do like her music. I listen to her lyrics and hold it to a higher standard than, say, anything by KC and the Sunshine Band in the ’70s (“That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh.”) or, from the current decade, Harry Styles’ “Watermelon Sugar” and whatever nonsense he’s pretending it’s not about.

 

I’ve quibbled with certain lines in other Swift songs such as in “Mean,” where she knocks a super critical guy and then stoops to his level (“All you are is mean…and a liar…and pathetic…and alone in life”) or the similarly angry “Your wife waters flowers, I wanna kill her” in this year’s “Fortnight.” But it’s in 2024’s “Down Bad” that she mentions twinning with her partner. 

Fuck it if I can’t have us,

I might just not get up.

I might just stay down bad.

 

Like I lost my twin

Fuck it if I can’t have him,

Down bad.

 

Muni Long also had a top 20 hit this year with “Made for Me.” It’s one of my favourites but I get stuck yet again on the twin reference.

It ain’t every day

That I get in my feelings this way

I knew it was rare

’Cause before you, I never did care.

Don’t know what I would do 

If I had to go on without you

 

Twin

Where have you been?

 

This morning in my Facebook feed, there was a photo of two men, just married, wearing matching green suits. I should love the pic because it’s a “blendie” in which their suits blend with the grasses and trees behind them. I’m a frequent “blendie” taker, but I define my term as a blended selfie. It’s my way of playing with the unabashed selfie culture that has become a fixture.

 

When we fought for marriage equality, there was all sorts of talk about how gays would put their own imprint on weddings, creating new traditions, but most of what I’ve seen has conformed with the standard wedding playbook. I’ve seen grooms each wear black tuxes but I don’t think this is a case of twinning; instead, it’s lack of imagination. The green-suited gays looked more stylish. Given that, I am certain they could have come up with complementary suits or even outfits that were truly unique to each of them. They consciously twinned.

 

I guess when I see a couple with matching winter coats or other gear, I wonder first if there was a BOGO sale (buy one, get one free). That notion makes my stomach want to cough up lunch. The other possibility is that the clothes are purchased to convey a sense of likeness and togetherness. Again, my lunch won’t settle. 

 

I will always believe that we bring ourselves into any relationship, be it a work dynamic, a friendship or something on the dating spectrum. If two is to be better than one, it’s due to what each person offers, a cosmic combining of ideas, interests and beliefs. It’s not about sameness but about how two individually formed adults mesh, enjoying commonalities while being curious about, respecting and supporting differences. 

 

For me, twinning feels like taking two people and watering them down, softening edges, conforming, getting blander. 

 

But then, I am single. And, just last week, I blogged that I expect to remain that way from now on. If someone shows up wearing the same shirt, pants and Converse as me, it’s not a sign we were meant to be together; rather, it’s a nudge that I need to shake up my personal fashion choices and skedaddle from the presently uncomfortable matching scenario.

 

My brother was not my twin and neither will be any boyfriend of mine, be it in the past or as some fictional future incarnation.