A lot of stuff happened over the weekend, I don’t even know where to begin. All I know is that I’m feeling crap. I’ve never felt this crap in 2 or 3 years. I got up today at 12 noon with the worst body aches ever. Both my legs were sore to the point where it’s hard to walk, my neck and my shoulders hurt like mad and I had the worst headache ever, not to mention liquified poo and dizziness.
BTW, I don’t mind diarrhea. I actually love it. Well, not in a fetish kind of way but in a good way. I heard diarrhea makes you dehydrated and it also makes you lose weight. You know what I mean. Purge, purge, purge. With all the food intake I had over the past few months, diarrhea is one heck of a blessing in disguise. I’d take diarrhea and extreme body dehydration over anything else.
I don’t think I’ve got the flu… it’s definitely something else though. I hope it’s just a bad case of the hangover and nothing too serious. I had to cancel my appointment earlier this morning with my dermatologists cause I felt sick to the bone.
Well, my sister finally graduated college/university. As planned, my familia de horreur went to the Westin hotel on late Saturday afternoon. We had dinner at this Chinese restaurant in Manila called "Emerald Garden". According to my dad the food was "authentic chinese" and it was good. The restaurant was jampacked — we had to wait 30 minutes to get a table. I’m not really a big fan of Chinese food. or waiting. Chinese food is soo… I don’t know. What’s a good word — domesticated? I really don’t know. I just don’t like chinese food, period.
After having dinner, I went back to the hotel to dress up. I was determined to go out. It was Saturday night afterall. If I’m gonna be in the city, I might as well ring up my friends and go out. Even if I haven’t slept for 48 hours, I had to go out.
My friend Ivan picked me up from the hotel at around 12AM and we went to this new club called "Embassy". God there were lots of people there that night. It was a good club. Not as good as the ones in London or New York but for Manila heck it was good. Besides, it’s nice to see that people put effort again. It was so crowded that night. And try going to a crowded club while being sober. You can’t dance. You can’t flirt. You can’t mince around.
The only thing I didn’t like is the fact that we had to pay to get in. I *never* pay to go to clubs. I mean, I’ll pay for drinks but entrance fees and such? Never. I’ll let this one pass though because it was new and we had to make connections etc. We’ll see how it progresses. Ha! What’s funny though is how when me and my friends left the club, my sister and her friends went to Embassy AND they didn’t pay. Gawd.
After a few drinks, Ivan and I went to the VIP area inside Embassy. Nice flooring, I thought. Saw a couple of my friends there, chit chatted for a bit, said hello to a couple of people then we left. Went to another club in Makati to pick up my mini-me prodigy, who, I have to admit, was lookin not bad that night — he read my blog afterall (hello John!) and then went straight to Malate to this club called "Bed" where I danced the night away.
I unleashed a little bit of the inner bitch that night. I can’t help it. I had to at least do something bitchy even if it’s only for 5 seconds. My mini-me prodigy (John) was talking to this old bald white man. I swear to god he was like ancient. I told him "don’t talk to these dirty old white trash people" — right in front of the old pensioner and grabbed John to go downstairs.
This potato queen obsession is something that I want to erase off the face of the planet. These rancid vintage sex tourists won’t stop coming to the country if they know people are going to entertain them. No wonder why chinks like me are having a bad name. Just because we’re chinks it doesn’t mean we’re gonna succumb to these old pensioner’s pension checks.
Anyway, I got back at the hotel at around 5:30. My sister and her friends got back at around 8AM. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping — I got up at around 12:30. Had lunch on my own, got some soup and a huge burger.
We checked out of the hotel at 3PM. I thought we’d stop by at the Manila Film Center. We saw these giant paper mache Egyptian thingie majigies and then there were like 2 sniper guys in position. It’s strange to see a S.W.A.T. Team with guns and all. It looks as if they’re off to kill someone. We had no idea why they were there. They were nice though cause when we parked in front of the Film Center, my sis’ friend forgot to close the car door. One of the S.W.A.T police guys came up to us and said we should lock our car doors. We asked why considering there’s only 2 cars parked (our car and their car) and nobody else was there other than us and the S.W.A.T team and they said it’s for our safety.
We snapped some photos and off we went home. I got up late in the afternoon today with a couple of fresh donuts, coffee and diarrhea from the Chinese food, too.
It’s 6:02AM and I just got home. God what a night I had.
Now that I’m home, I feel a bit feverish… my head hurts sooo much it can split into several pieces.
A lot of stuff happened tonight I wish I brought my camera with me… but my sister forgot it completely so we left it at home.
One thing that really shocked me was the fact that I
encountered a head-to-toe inspection by the
Spanish unfashionable police.
I went to Government (this local club) earlier. I spent a good couple of hours dancing like a fucking bitch. Thank god there weren’t a lot of people — I don’t like crowded clubs; I prefer it about 3/4ths filled.
Anyway… I danced like a proper glamorous cunt. Oh yes, everyone stared at me. Even a bloody, half-naked (they all do that) muscle mary came up and said something to me but I completely ignored him; I just smiled because I didn’t pay attention to what he said.
I really had a blast. It was like being Cameron Diaz on the Charlie’s Angels’ dancefloor. I was invincible — and sober. Well, I probably had far too many vodka red bulls but at least there weren’t any drugs, which was a good thing.
So there I was, dancing my booty off on the dancefloor, new Fendi shoes and brilliantly customized jeans and all… then a bunch of spaniards, 3 of them to be exact, 2 girl fag hags and 1 faggot hairy-faced son of a bitch, spent their night trying to pick me up.
I know, I know, I sound like I’m full of myself but it was so bloody obvious it wasn’t even funny. The guy was literally trying to dance with me but I’m just dancing with my friends.
Always use Paris Hilton as your role model: dance
like a slut but don’t let the horny wankers touch
So yeah, I ignored the 3 Spaniards and spent the night dancing, drinking and chit chatting with friends.
Even my prodigy was there, the young one who was trying to be ME, because I left the scene ages ago. We did the usual hi, hellos, but I didn’t pay attention to him that much — my Fendi deserves better.
He’s an aspiring, young, chu-chu person. I don’t blame him though, he’s like only 18 or something. Hopefully one day he’ll realize fashion is only fashion — it’s only clothes, it’s only material stuff. You shouldn’t take it seriously. Considering he can’t even buy the real thing and he’d rather go to flea markets.
I give him A+ for Effort though. He does try it hard… really hard and for that I give him credit. After all, he’s still fabulous (gag me — faux fur choking my throat) and he’s friends with a lot of up-there people.
I should give him a makeover one time. I think it
would be a lot fun. I won’t even tell you what he
WORE on his hair a couple of weeks ago — thank
god he showed up today with elastic trash-free
You know, go to the Gucci store to get new season stuff instead of buying consignment shop "vintage" (vintage means old and crap) Gucci. But then again, I hate Gucci these days… so utterly boring.
Anyway, so I danced and I danced, I drank and I drank until my babysitter younger sister drove outside the club and called me.
I told my friends I have to go out for a bit… need to tell my sister I don’t wanna go home yet — it was around 4AM. You know me though… I have my own car but I don’t drive cause I got rear-ended twice and my dad won’t let me renew my license.
Then there they were AGAIn: the 3 Spaniards were outside the club. Fag hags and hairy-faced short faggot, all sitting on the gutter.
I had a mini conversation with them. I swear to god they were ALL over me, like they’ve never seen my type before. I certainly don’t mind the attention, I mean who on earth bloody hates attention? I know I suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder but this sort of attention was a whole new level.
The faggot was all like telling me how I looked so fabulous and fashionable (ick). But being the fake modest bitch that I am, I told them "Oh god no, I actually look like trash today because I didn’t put effort. I was just planning to have a simple night out and I’m just wearing simple clothes."
Which was true because usually whenever I go out, it takes a lot of fucking preparation and I have to wear my latest and finest gear — something that nobody has seen me wear before.
Then his 2 fag hag friends asked me EVERYTHING about my gear… and I mean everything.
1) Plain black t-shirt by James Perse
2) Very old Diesel jeans that I cut the waist off, same with the legs and then spray-painted it gold all over the place
3) My overused and overexposed Dior Rasta messenger bag
4) Dior Rasta watch
5) Louis Vuitton cuff bracelet
6) Fendi sneakers
Here’s the thing: they EVEN asked me what my underwear AND socks were — Calvin Klein boxers of course.
It was fashion police trying to be fashion police but they were soooo tactless and obsessed about me. I swear I’m not kidding. If you think I’m tactless, they’re like 10X more tactless than me. PROMISE.
Not satisfied with my gear, they made me spill the contents of my bag onto the road so they can take a peek at it.
1) Louis Vuitton wallet
2) Mobile phone
3) Dior lip gloss
4) Dior foundation
5) Cash, receipts, tissue paper, miscellaneous paper shit
It’s funny how the faggot was sooo clueless. He even asked me about my Dior foundation, like what it was, whether it’s a condom case or not. At first I was shy to tell him "it’s fucking foundation" because that would imply I use make up. Then he played some sort of a guessing game on what it was…. I even thought he was just winding me up but no… he really was bloody clueless. God. Absofuckinglutely clueless.
So yeah… those 2 Spaniards were weird. They were nice and friendly but they were absolutely weird. When they asked about my age, I said 17… then I asked one of the fag hags how old I look like and they said I look younger.
Thank you Jesus, Mary, Joseph. There is a god afterall INDEED.
I got bored of my 3 Spanish fans so I told them I gotta go with my friends. I told them we’re going to this other club "Bed".
Fast forward 30 minutes later, little Mr. Spanish boy was there… right behind me as in literally.
He must have heard me telling my friend "oh look it’s my stalker" because when I went upstairs in the club, he stopped following me and stuff.
He wasn’t really THAT good looking. He’s doable, but only if you’re drunk. I think he’s one of those stale, 20-something Eurotrash expats who venture out in the far east to get an easy life. I’m taller than him, he has dark hair, a hairy face… well, not really hairy but he looks like the last time he shaved was about 3 days ago. Typical spanish looks. He wore some short-sleeved button down shirt (only taxi drivers wear them) and some pants. The 2 fag hags wore spaghetti strap tops. One of them was 28 years old but she looked like 21.
Hello!!!!!!!!! Spaghetti straps. Oh yes. Disgusting, innit?
He was doable but not really THAT doable. I’ve seen far cuter guys. Like the kid whose claim to fame is that he’s Paris Hilton.
Thing is, EVERYBODY here claims they’re Paris
Paris Hilton my bloody arse, your hat ain’t even Von Dutch (or should I say Von Vagina because it’s soo common), your Coach bag looks fake — it was pink. PINK Coach. Did Coach ever make pink square fanny packs? I have no idea. I never pay attention to Coach. American commercial trash that you can get from Nordstrom, Macy’s and the "for-the-masses" stores where you have to use a steel shopping cart to shop for stuff. His shoes were a bit dodgy and he was wearing a zip-up jacket that skater kids from 1997 used to wear.
Paris Hilton indeed.
Nobody, and I mean nobody here in the fucking Philippines wear DIOR for god’s sake! It’s not funny!
NOTE TO NEW, UPCOMING DESIGNERS OUT
THERE: MEDIA KILLS. NEVER LET A FUCKING
CELEBRITY GET PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE MEDIA
BECAUSE IT WILL ONLY CHEAPEN YOUR LABEL.
Ugh. This is just me blabbing my arse off. Ignore me. I’m nice and sweet.
Anyway, I thought he was quite cute — take all of the junk minimum wage clothes off — and then tell him to fuck my arse.
But I don’t think he’d be capable of doing that because he’s bloody 17 and he’s a fuckin kid. I need a guy that’s about 2 or 3 years older than me. Give me a bit a maturity, you know… but not viagra.
All I can say is, show me your goods and I’ll show you mine.
Whoever has the best goods wins the crown. Aren’t we being a bit too shallow and pretentious now?
No further comments your honor.
I’m off to bed. I need to wash my face, brush my teeth and do my Obagi ritual.
Good night everyone and I love you all.
God. I just got up a couple of minutes ago.
Note to self: do not go clubbing on a weekday ever again.
I just got up after sleeping for 7 full hours. I don’t usually sleep that much but I was soo knackered when I got home.
I met up and spent quality time with an old friend (and his friends) last night at this Paul Van Dyk thing after a little more than a year of not really talking to each other. It’s a long story, but it was nice to see him again. It was alright — there were LOTS of people, the tents were packed and everyone was dancing and on drugs. Although his music is nice, I’m not really into trance-y tunes etc. I like house and I like it deep. I like it vocal. I like it funky. I like it dark. I like it dirty.
It’s funny cause since 2002-mid 2003, pretty much each and every weekend consisted of going to clubs, popping pills, snorting all sorts of every imaginable powder available, from coca plants to horse anesthesia. Even if I did all sorts of stuff when I was much, much younger, that time has to the the most drug-fuelled period ever. I took a year and 6 month-long hiatus (i.e. detox) from that and I came back to the ‘scene’ yesterday and people are still doing the same thing.
Yesterday I told my friend we’ll try to be sober — not necessarily as sober as the pope… but no pills… or K. It was good. I had a couple of vodka red bulls until temptation struck us — chemical substances at times like this were inevitable. So off I got 2Gs of C. I gave one to my friend and I kept one for myself. I took 2 hits in the toilets and nothing else. I just couldn’t get myself to do more of it. I couldn’t be bothered at all.
I’m not dissing people who *still* do it. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against those people. I mean, it’s fun and all… but personally, after time, you just get sick of it… really sick of it. My father had always told me since we were kids, "too much of everything is bad" – and it’s true indeed. Yes, bad habits die last… but at least I evolved.
I think i’ll lay off chemicals for a bit (just as I have done for awhile now) and focus on some of the most important things in life — family, work and myself… without the influence of anything.
Anyone wants some leftovers then? I’d give it for free. *kiddin*
Last night’s outfit:
- Abercrombie & Fitch top
- Old Alexander McQueen Jeans
- Old cowboy boots I got at Ebay.com for $13 then I spray painted it silver
- Chanel bag and Chanel belt
- Urban Outfitters brooch that I put on the pocket
- Dior gambler bracelets
- Franck Muller watch