BRYANBOY EXPOSé: I’M A TEENAGE MOM!
I think it was my mom who once told me that no one can really keep a secret forever. You can’t bring your secrets to the grave. All secrets (apparently), no matter how dark or well-kept they are, get revealed at one point.
I don’t know what your secrets are but I, for one, had to face one of the skeletons in my closet, thanks to my stomach-sucking skills, who failed me for the first time last night.
Cha-ching! What the fuck is that????
That’s me with the birthday girls, Tessa and Xeng.
Yes bitches, I’m fucking pregnant. Again!
You’d think the little fucker got flushed the last time I had a round of diarrhea but little miss bo peep peep got wolverine claws.
I don’t even know who knocked me up! Shit, if only I knew who the father of my unwanted fetus is… I’d be knocking on their fucking doorstep and ask for liposuction money!
Photo credit: Mark Nicdao
I went to my usual haunt La Embajada last night for Xeng and Tessa’s party. The usual suspects were there and boy I had soooo much fun.
It was a good night… shit, I got home at fucking 5:30AM!!!!
So many pictures, so little space.
Believe it or not, people I don’t even know came up to me and talked to me.
I. met. new. people!
It’s amazing how I meet sooooo many people these days.
Around the same time last year I didn’t know shit. I love it. I really do.
I mean, let’s face it, I might as well enjoy it now while I’m at my peak because if I don’t play my cards right, I’ll look like that in a couple of years time.
I HAVE SEEN THE FUTURE AND I SWEAR TO MY DEAD GRANDFATHER’S GRAVE THAT I AM NOT GOING TO END UP LOOKING LIKE THIS.
One day, I’m gonna meet a tall, gorgeous, filthy rich man with ill gotten wealth (gambling, corruption, drugs, extortion, weapons of mass destruction, whatever).
Just as my Mexican buddy Mauricio told me, I’ll be a trophy wife.
We’re gonna be going out in our Lanvin pearls, our Givenchy skirt suits, Roger Vivier stilettos, De Grisogono watch, huge Nancy Gonzalez crocodile satchels in shy black, Stephen Jones hats, Boucheron sunglasses and Revillon furs.
We’ll have lunch at Alain Ducasse, dinners at Le Voltaire and have cocaine-fuelled romps at the Ritz in Paris.
We’ll run out hysterically to the Dior Joaillerie dropping mad plastic. We’ll even have weekly liposuctions.
Shit, we’ll be just like Brigid Berlin (Andy Warhol hanger-on) and her sister Richie, who goes to Bloomingdale’s after getting amphetamine shots just to pick out new clothes and walk out of the store with them on, leaving their old clothes behind.
Not at Bloomingdale’s though… Alaia!
Oh god. I can’t wait to resurrect the fucking concorde… spend my morning and afternoons in Paris and evenings in New York.
Oh I love Mauricio. He’s in Madrid now though. *sigh*
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Hanoi, Vietnam, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, Kelso, NSW Australia, Seoul, South Korea, Kuching, Sarawak Malaysia, Hoogvliet, Holland, Darch, VIC Australia, Banksmeadow, NSW Australia, Glasgow, Scotland, Beijing, China, Bangkok, Thailand, Jonkopping, Sweden, Kareela, NSW Australia, Zamboanga Del Sur, Philippines (OMG they have internet down there?), Wuliao, Taiwan and of course, all the cuties who live in Calgary, AB Canada!! I love you all! Identify yourselves bitches and say hello.
#2 – I have another live interview coming up in a few days. This time I’ll wear Helmut Lang. We’ll see.
#3 – If you’re near the Quezon City area, be sure to visit Green Papaya Art Projects (www.greenpapaya.org) at 124A Maginhawa St., Teachers Village East, Diliman QC on Feb 16 or 17 at 9PM. Tickets cost P100 (or US$2).
Anatomy of Humiliation in Desire (Anatomy Project 3) is a collaborative research project by artists from diverse disciplines as contemporary dance, video, new media and sound, that captures the awkward, hesitation and poignant in human relationships. It aims to investigate the paradox of love by venturing into the ambiguous space that separates love from hate, violence and tenderness, anticipation and hesitation, fear and bewilderment. Dancers research on the physicality of naïve and inexplicable emotions by exploring the gestures, movement and bodily attitude suggesting the violence, fear, irony, humor and humiliation of falling in love. Both audience and artists attempt the cartography of humiliation in desire in an evening of frenzied awkwardness, anxious hesitation, laughter and frustration.
#4 – Lots of stunning photo submissions from my readers all over the world.
Holy shit. Even an entire class (from the top law school/ivy league unis in the country) sent me a photo of their unconditional love. Say hello to these lawyers/future lawyers. Click here for the full-sized version.
It’s nice to see the faces of the people who will defend me in the event I murder someone in the future for life insurance money or a good handbag.
God. I’m shocked!
This is what happens when your girl_friend (or should I say girlfriend?) forced you to wear stilettos and carry a Longchamp bag.
These kids are soooo adorable.
Isn’t Riza sweet?
#5 – I have one thing to say to all these Swedish faggots in denial:
Om du inte vet din stil, maybe its maybelline!!!!!!
#6 – I hate it when old flames rekindle well, old flames. Where’s Dr. Phil when you need him most?
#7 – Brazilian Michael Camiloto (Gucci boy) is just hot. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot! Courtesy of BlogMadeinBrazil.com. I’m telling you, I am soo going to Brazil one day and get myself a hot Brazilian papi to bring me shopping to Daslu (if they’re still open by the time I get there).
#8 – I would like to thank Thomas Ruppel for telling me what I already knew.
#9 – Thank god I’m NOT the only one in the world looking like crap leaving the dermatologist’s/aesthetician’s clinic after a facial.
#10 – 12 MORE DAYS AND IT’S FREAKIN VALENTINE’S DAY!
If I’m not mistaken, I have been single for 22 out of 23 years on Valentine’s Day. There was a year when I was with someone but the loser was in New York and sent me home-baked sugar cookies via FedEx.
I NEED A DATE GOD DAMMIT.
I’VE NEVER BEEN ON A VALENTINE’S DAY DATE IN MY LIFE. EVER!
Tell me you love me. Tell me you wanna buy me dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant, L’Opera, here in the Third World on Valentine’s day. Tell me you wanna give me a dozen red roses, a kilo of Pierre Marcolini chocolates and a tiny red box with a shiny big present from Cartier.
Email firstname.lastname@example.org or SMS +63-915-785-1492.
God. I hate ageing.