“You don’t like it?”. The taste in my mouth is unbearable -- a mixture of cat fur and spoiled milk. I stare at the culprit in front of me -- a layer of fluffy, gooey, chocolate cake shaped like my favorite character on Sesame Street -- Big Bird. Right between his eyes, a candle stands tall, wax dripping down its swirled red and white sides.

With my tiny eyes, I stare at Big Bird, and Big-Bird stares at me. How can something that looks this good taste so bad? I look over at my twin sister, Ava, to see if she likes it. She does. In fact, she is smashing her face into it -- I don’t think she knows how to use a fork.
   

Big Bird’s gooey insides are oozing out onto the table, while the candles and frosting on top have just caved in. I just want to get this thing away from me. I stretch out my tiny chubby fingers as if I am going to lift up the fork sitting on the table next to me. Instead, with a quick motion, I push the plate off the table and onto the carpet. Luckily for my parents, my Aunt dives for it and catches the plate, but the cake falls on the floor. It splatters everywhere: On the floor, on the ceiling, on my sister, on ME. Ava starts wailing, and I can almost feel her hate coming across the table at me.
   

Ava can barely talk, but I know she is thinking, “Colin, I’ll get you for this. It’s our first birthday and you ruined it. Just because you don’t like cake.” Of course, Now I start to notice everyone around me is looking straight at me. Some relatives have big clumps of cake covering their faces, others have it on their clothes. One thing’s the same, though: They are mad.
   

The only thing that will help me is the one thing I do most: cry. I join along with Ava and start to hysterically cry. I cry like I have never cried before, tears gushing down my face as I emit the sound of what sounds like a dying elephant. The room unfreezes as my Mom runs to me.
   

She comforts, “Colin, it’s okay. Just a little mess. We’ll clean it up fast. It’s okay.” I stop crying, and don’t know what to do. For a moment all is quiet. After what seems like an hour, I finally think of something.
   

I pick up a napkin off the table, lift it up, and shout, “PEEKABOO.” Everyone erupts in laughter as they grab a few paper towels to help clean up.
   

I am 13 now, and ever since the cake fiasco, I have never liked cake. I mean, I have tried other types, like red velvet (disgusting), chocolate pudding (the pudding was good, not the cake), and peach (I know, it even sounds disgusting), but I still don’t like anything about them. Now, even thinking about eating a cupcake makes me want to gag.
   

Even though Ava loves cake, we have still have had a special bond ever since that point 12 years ago. I like to call it the “Twin Connection.” It is a feeling that nothing can seperate us, and that we would feel incomplete without one another. 

A day doesn’t pass without Ava finishing my sentences or me finishing hers. It has become part of the tradition between us, and that tradition will never break. To me, this is the only evidence needed to prove that the Twin Connection is a real thing.