Where the fuck is your god?
You tell me bitch, cause my god punished me for all the bad deeds I did in this planet.
Someone told me last night that my skin looked great. Yes – it was Queen Naz Noor to be exact, while waiting for my vodka red bull from the bar.
Fast forward a couple of hours…
I slept at 5AM, then I got up 6 fucking hours later with my WORST nightmare.
A fuckin cheesemax the size of 79AD Mount Vesuvius slapped in the middle of my face.
Right between my thick, Amazonian foliage-like eyebrows to be exact.
Yes, I haven’t had a facial in far too long — 2 weeks, I think? I can’t even remember.
But god. God oh god oh god oh god oh god.
This is just fuckin ludicrous.
This is what I get for saying I don’t have random cheesemax oi vey!
KARMA BIT MY SCROTUM AGAIN.
This is even worse than my St. Tropez disaster last year.
I really can’t afford to have a zit. I just can’t.
Alliance Française de Manille is having a little French Fashion Illustration event today and I’m gonna miss it because of satan’s spawn stuck on my face.
My life is ruined. I have so many things to do, so many opportunities, so many so many many-many-many. Yes, many many many many.
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why do I have to be fucking human?
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why can’t I get volcanic immunity? Do I fucking need a fucking diplomatic passport?
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why do I have to be punished this bad?
I called my aesthetician and booked an emergency extraction facial/glycopeel cleaning and a powerpeel/microdermabrasion session later this afternoon. It’s gonna be syringe day today. Inject that mother fucker with weapons of mass destruction. 5PM to be exact.
While they’re at it, I might as well ask them to fuckin bombard the damn thing with fuckin cyanide. Morphine. Heroin.
Heck, they better make it lethal.
Sodium Thiopental (Pentothal), Pancuronium Bromide (Pavulon) and Potassium Chloride.
They’d better remove this thing on my god damn face no later than 7PM tonight or else I’ll commit suicide.
Oh yes. Suifuckingcide.
I’ll cover my head and suffocate myself using cling wrap whilst being locked inside a vintage Vuitton trunk.
I’m not kidding you.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
Oh screw all of you. Yes. Each and everyone of you. I’m not in the best mood today.
Go kill yourselves or something. Go get an eating disorder. Go cottaging. Go get a sexually-transmitted disease. Go get food poisoning. ALL OF YOU!
Except the ones who recently sent me love. Bryanboy loves you and only you…
(Alright… I know I said NO photoshopped text/signs but I gotta make an exception)
I can’t think straight. I need those shots. Pronto!
I’ll update later. Promise.
P.S. Send me love dammit. You know who you are. And you know how to fucking contact me being the shameless self-promotion impressario that I am. email@example.com.