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A weekend or two ago, my brother & I ventured to the city to buy some new clothes.

Mike was looking at a replacement shirt which made him look like a surfy lumberjack–

*Leigh breaks into a song like every Python-fan would*

Ohhhhh… I'm a lumberjack… and surfy, hey
I sleep all night and I work all day
I cut down trees, I surf and jump, I avoid the tourist tees
Sometimes I take a wipeout, and have salty sea for tea

–what was I saying? Oh yes….

So Mike & I went to General Pants in Bondi Junction first, a place that seems wasted if you could imagine a shop that has loads of things along the walls but people working there who obviously couldn't give a fuck and are happy to insult your intelligence on a regular basis.

Mike asked them if they had a smaller size of a particular shirt. The girl looked at him with blank eyes, her long sandy blonde hair seeming more intent on circling just how shallow those eyes really were. She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a striped shirt that was obviously not the one Mike had asked for as it was… a different brand.

"No," Mike said, "this is a different brand."

Unsatisfied, she went back and looked again.

She came back and said "this one has stripes," assuming Mike didn't care about the brand and only wanted stripes.

What the hell? Was this girl an idiot? It wouldn't surprise me if the answer was yes, but was it the policy of this store to insult the customer's intelligence?

Oooo… you mean to say that brands are irrelevant to customers and we only want patterns & colours! My my my! How schweet!

We asked her to check if it was in the city and after getting a "yes" though a "yes" that I wouldn't have left a jelly mold on, we moved on.

To the city! The place where parking will cost you an arm and a leg if you don't read through the terms & conditions of every freaking sign! The place where people don't go on long weekends for fear of uncertain death and boredom! The city!

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Leigh forgot his belt today

I forgot my belt today.

My waist feels more free than it ever has in years of servitude. I keep it locked behind chain & key (or at least buckle & hole) and now it is freeeeeeeee.

It even has more e's than the Eee.

But I still feel odd without it. As if I need to constantly watch or hold onto my belt loops just in case it could fall down at any second revealing my hairy chicken legs and Casper white thighs.

My old Russian Art teacher jokingly suggested over email that I use the D700 strap as a belt.


Could this be the world's first and only full-frame belt?

…yeah. Not super effective and holding pants up. Nice try, though. Very stylish.

Skinny crack whores that ask for money

Well that's a first. I've never been approached by a skinny crack whore asking for money before.

Not me. Not me in my swanky hat and vintage tanned jacket with a slightly daggy striped Country Road shirt hanging a little too loosely over my crispy blue Kenji Urban low-riding jeans. 

Not me coming home from work and walking through the city after buying myself some newer clothes to look more presentable than I did that moment.

And yet there one was, walking alongside of me as I walked past the French Connection on Pitt Street towards Martin Place. She walked up beside me quickly; I must have looked like an easy target.

"Are you from Sydney?" she started, a voice from out of nowhere coming from this strange heap of flesh that I guess could resemble a woman if you perhaps squinted through broken glasses and sneezed backwards twice.

"Yup," I replied continuing my walk.

"God, I feel like such an idiot for asking this," she babbled on, stumbling over words that she didn't really care about in the first place. I just replied "don't be" and she went on.

"I'm from Melbourne and I've just arrived in Sydney," she said, her sucked-in cheeks looking like used condom wrappers against flesh with too much foundation. She was probably a twenty-something or an early thirty-something, but she could have passed for a withering sixty year old decaying rocker jumping out of her last pornographic film not three minutes ago. 

"I feel silly asking this," she said again, but asked anyway. "My car has stopped on Clarence St; do you have any change?"

I kept on walking and said "sorry, I don't have any money on me," a freshly packed Industrie bag hanging off of my right hand speaking the contrary.

"Not even any coins?" she asked. 

Desperation… riiiiigghhhhttt… I must have looked like an easy target. I just walked on. Her pleasant ass-kissing attitude changed as quickly as I'd ever seen one when she immediately said "well I thought you looked like a bum" and turned around pacing back.

A bum? Geeze. I don't want to give a skinny crack whore who can't apply make-up money and I look like a bum? 

Wow. That hurts, skinny crack whore. That really fucking hurts.

The funniest guy in… St. Leonards.

I wonder if this will be a problem for me long term: this whole need to make people smile.

Take what happened to me only a few days ago…

I was in bed with a gorgeous girl, we'll call her S for the moment. S is as sexy and sensuous as the letter S could provide. She has soft skin, seductive strands of black hair, supple lips, and a sexual tenacity that I can only hope other girls have too. S is incredible in case I didn't give that impression off in the first place.

But while I should have probably been kissing, licking and getting all freaky all up inside of her one August morning, I was instead making her laugh.

Hysterically. (And I'll be making ya'll laugh hysterically with the same thing hopefully soon as I'm working on it.)

But the thing I'm troubled about is this:

Should I have been making S laugh so much that her face created a new shade of red and ran out of air when I could have been, you know, actually having sex?

I wonder if this is going to become a problem for me. You know, getting to know a girl and then getting down to do something sexy but screwing it all up by causing ridiculous amounts of laughter because that's what my personality is.

I mean I know that rambunctious laughter will be the likely result when my mouth isn't full of tongue and is given the opportunity to wriggle around and actually speak, but is it beneficial to be able to make a girl laugh when you're both in bed and probably could be fucking.

I guess it then leads that line to this question:

Can laughter be better than sex?

And that's something I don't know… I just don't know.