Egotistical versus ego-testicle

I cultivate side burns. Does that offend you and your legion of fashion-god-worshipping zealots?

So there I was (ta-dah) strutting my merry way down Bourke Street, flanked by suits, and while we, or at least I, grooved and bounced to the noise blaring from my MP3 player’s earphones these fellow Melbournians marvelled at the convoy of circus performers crossing the road—there was a dwarf riding a unicorn; a lanky bear on stilts; a Panda-bird gliding through the air; and a dozen toothless children lagging behind on pogo sticks. You could smell the fairy floss and taste its sweetness on your tongue.

Ok, I exaggerate. Twas a typical winter morning. The wind swirled through my sleeves and snuck under my collar and chilled me as I fell into formation at the crossing outside of Southern Cross and as I plodded along I weaved through streams of people who couldn’t walk in a straight line to win a free muesli bar from 7-Eleven (this is no exaggeration because I received a coupon from mysterious green-clothed lady). Despite the upbeat tunes of Royksopp potentially contributing to my possible future deafness at the age of 30 (ok, could be a hint of BS there), I walked onwards without any spring in my step and followed the trail of cigarette butts and fresh spittle, trying very hard not to breathe in the acrid blend of exhaust and perfume which permeated the breeze.

How dare you mock me, lamp

If I did find a spring, however, I would have cracked a smile and the teeth of anyone who dared to challenge what is rightfully mine …

Enough of spring and back to winter.

Like the weather, a lot of what was escaping the lips of proletariats passing by was cold. I was semi-oblivious to comments regarding my face warmers. I say semi-oblivious because I knew the carpet samples were the highlight of random banter, judging by the averted gazes my glances invoked and the ‘nooo way’ that I actually heard shouted from my behind (no, I didn’t fart and even if I did I’m sure glutious maximus would proclaim: ‘wassup’).

Maybe I’m paranoid—the world isn’t out to destroy me, or is it? Maybe I’m insecure about my side boards; they are in need of waxing. Am I self-conscious about my look? I’d say ‘hellz no’ but the inquisitive reader would penetrate my veneer of vectromininity and say ‘why would you invent a word to dig yourself out of a latrine?’.

Admittedly, this morning’s adventure was part social experiment; part couldn’t be bothered shaving properly.

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