Chill, My Minions, Chill.
Grab some vodka and valiums. NOW!
Sorry for the lack of updates. I’ve been terribly busy the past few days, juggling my time between tasks, dealing with friends and caterers, healthcare, etc. I know there are some of you out there who check my site several times a day to get a fix for your fabulous addiction and there’s nothing worse that going back to what you were doing, empty-handed.
Bah! Let’s get down and dirty shall we…
Fancy a Game of Fencing?
I was checking some of my blog referrers earlier and I noticed people from this forum (you gotta love online discussion forums) called "Pinoy Exchange" are talking about my little McFatty ass. As always, I just LOVE and I mean LOVE some of these sanctimonious twats who spend their day drinking motor oil.
Click here to see the thread.
Gotta love the amount of self-righteousness that infest that place.
Breeding? Sorry bitches, I’m bent. And I’m anorexic. I’ll leave the chicken feed to the breeders.
Class? What’s that? Is this something you buy at… Walmart? I’m an out of school youth. At 18 (+5 don’t tell anyone) years old, you’re supposed to be out of the classroom… unlesss you’re into hanging out in the cafeteria, pedophilia or handing out cigarettes to minors.
Purge my dear readers, purge. Stick 3 fingers down your throats and purrrrrrrge.
Let’s go fencing sweethearts – use a sword, or in this case, your pen… and I’ll poke & pack all that fudge in your hairy buttocks using my Louis Vuitton umbrella.
Whoever said that the pen is mightier than the sword should lick my lipstick, get shot in the crotch and get dumped on the nearest freeway, bleeding to death like roadkill because it’s definitely something that can put any rain, sword… or any pen, whether it be BIC or Montblanc, to shame.
Monogram madness eh. It’s just like what, 1999? 2000? Despite what y’all think, logo-a-gogo will always be here to stay.
At least it ain’t some corporate logo ala "A-family-member-went-into-a-business-conference-and-all-I-got-is-this-lousy-mug/t-shirt/umbrella-promo" tripe stamped on my saber stick.
Finally. After all this time I was able to visit my shrink on Monday afternoon to get my prescriptions refilled. I had to go to a different hospital though because he’s in a different one during afternoons.
If ever you’re in the Philippines, please don’t, under any circumstances, go to Makati Medical Center.
Unless you have attention deficit disorder.
Thank god I’m healed from that dreaded disease.
Each god damn floor feels like its bloody basement (rumor has it that the basement of this hospital is pretty much a better version of the National Mental Health Center).
That hospital is just plain awful and fuckin crowded.
Especially the pharmacy section where I had to sit for OVER an hour just to buy my meds. The queue is horrendous – there’s no such thing as a queue jump and I had to sit beside really weird people who look as if I’m a walking cadaver. That’s what I felt on Monday afternoon – a cadaver, fresh from the morgue.
God I looked awful that day.
(I left my camera at home on Monday and had to take one of those mobile phone self-shots. Har har!)
If I got a dollar from each stare that I got, I’d be buying a new handbag.
I admit – I like it when people stare, it validates my existence (of course), but definitely not from hospital people.
Friday Fun in the Sandbox
This message goes out to people who know who they are… or who WILL know who they are.
(OK, perhaps to a few, very few, no more than 25, select people.)
Um, hi? hello? ;)
Be sure to reserve your early Friday night (yep, this week), after the Shu Uemura party.
Make me feel special and be sure to come. Please?
You’ll know what I’m talking about soon!
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
People from Pompano Beach, FL, Omaha, Nebraska, Scottsdale, AZ, people from Bonn, Germany and people who read the Manila Bulletin. Get down on your knees and hail to the Patron Saint of Materialism – that’s me.
Remember kids: don’t buy your Vuittons from eBay. But them at the stores!
Is it the rain or what? I don’t feel so inspired recently.
As always, identify yourselves and email me: email@example.com.
Don’t bother emailing that dirty old man with the big forehead from CNN. I bet he’s chav scum when he’s off-air. Even if he already said hi live on TV, I’ll haven’t seen it.
I didn’t watch CNN today. So even if he *does* say hi on air, I’m here sitting on my bed, having some obesity-inducing vanilla ice cream and watching a film on HBO with Mandy Moore in it.
I kinda feel bad because you guys prolly bombarded him with emails. I take that back. They prolly don’t even read it in the first place. Well, screw it. I’ll just find another guy to prey on. Hah Bloody Hah.
And this time it won’t be an old fart like Max.
NOW IF ANY of his staff emails me with a date and time, GMT of course, as to when Max will say hi to me on air, then I’ll have a change of heart and watch CNN Today again.
But for now, lick my lipstick, Max Factor. I’m back to Dior Lip Gloss.
I’ll update with a longer post – chicken feed, lucifer and others.
STOP THE PRESS: ONE MORE BLOODY
HOUR OF CNN TODAY. I’ve been watching
CNN Today for the past 2 hours now it’s
not EVEN funny.
UGH. Well, they just said the CORRECT email address!
Email firstname.lastname@example.org and tell Max
Factor Foster to say hi to BryanBoy from the Philippines.
They’re live NOW as in LIVE folks!
Max, you hot big-foreheaded-cutie, is this you? I know you’re in London…
Tell me you love me Max. Hah!!!
I NEED TO STOP SMOKING.
Can I ask a favor? Please? My chest hurts from all the chain smoking that I’ve been doing and I need someone… or a group of people to bug, harass, stalk me by all means possible, email, instant messenger, text messages, blog comments, whatever.
At least for the next 24 hours. Please?
At this rate I’d probably be like good ol Nan Kempner and die of emphysema before I say the word fabulous.
(Love you Nan, I really do. I’ll be just like you when I get older)
Gawd, I didn’t expect to ellicit a couple of responses from my little closeted faggot post. In fact, I even spent an entire hour talking to a closeted fag from the land of Starbucks, Seattle, WA.
He kept on and on and on and on how he’d rather stay in the closet and live a double-sided life than come out of the closet. The insensitive son of a bitch is in his early 30s, married, have 2 kids but ocassionally plays with men "on the side".
He claims it’s pointless that he comes out because it has no relevance on his life.
But when you’re fuckin married… and cheating on yer wife… I mean come on. That’s just harsh and bloody damn insensitive.
And you know how dirty some faggots can be. STDs and all that crap… passing it to your wife.
IMO, he’s not only fooling himself, not only he’s fooling his wife, his kids, and everyone else around him, he’s also USING them to cover up his inhibitions.
I dunno. He does have a good argument though — his sexuality really, is nobody else’s business except his. I didn’t have an answer for that.
*plays drama music*
Let’s go back to the Bryanboy Life Archives shall we?
A couple of years ago, I used to see this guy who was confused sexually. We started off as friends until things got heated up. Yes, he claimed he was straight – at least publicly. But when we were together, he was like "confused".
And before you start speculating, no, I didn’t convert the bastard.
He was such a drug junkie. On drugs, he was all you know — deranged. May god bless his soul wherever he is. Drugs or no drugs, I thought he was sweet. There was something about that guy that made me attracted to him and fall in love with.
I’ll never, ever, ever forget the time when he flew to London (where I was) to spend the weekend together. After 3 days of hanging out, we got soo hooked on each other. On the taxi way back to Luton airport, we held hands to the point where our hands were just utterly utterly sweaty and just cried.
(Luton Airport… oh the memories…)
At the airport, same thing. We were on a cafe, just sat there waiting for his flight, looking at each other’s eyes, poured our eyes out, saying we’ll miss each other blah blah blah. It was mushy mushy galore. The bond we had was unexplainable.
For about a month, we’ve taken turns each weekend to see each other. Either he goes to London or I fly to Edinburgh.
He was a totally different person when I was in Edinburgh. Especially when I met his friends at this pub. Oh god. The most surreal experience ever and I won’t even talk about it here.
But yeah, he was just a total mind fuck. I’ve chalked it up to experience. Never again I’ll deal with anyone with excess baggage. It’s not even Vuitton or Goyard for fuck’s sake.
When it comes to a guy, yes, a guy… I’ll never, ever, ever, ever deal with anyone who is "sexually confused", "i’m gay but i’m not out to anyone" and "i’m gay but i’m only out with friends and not to family".
Never again. It’s either you’re out or forget about it.
BRYAN IS REALLY BISEXUAL
God, after all that faggot drama, I had this nagging feeling to tell that I am really bisexual. It’s funny how everyone assumes I’m gay. Well, I can’t help it — I am so gay that I even scare gay guys off.
That’s alright though. I don’t care and I don’t give a fuck.
I like boys. I like girls. Perhaps I like boys more than, say, girls, but when I see a girl that I really really like, then bam! I’m not one of those disgusting members of the male species who claim they’re "bisexual" to cover up their membership to enchanted gaydom.
This "I’m bisexual but all I do is suck cock" attitude is rampant in the Filipino scene.
How VOMIT inducing. It’s purge galore at its finest.
You know who you are.
Fuckin wankers saying they’re bisexual to cover up their glittered assholes when all they want really is a cock up their throats and that’s about it.
Ugh my blood is boiling.
I need my rivotril and I’m off to bed.
Baboosh for now.
P.S. Scottish guy if you’re reading this (hopefully not), thanks for teaching me a lesson. Really. I did love you at that time. I probably still do, I mean, I think the feelings are still there, in a way. Bah. That’s why I’ve blocked you on MSN. God knows whether you’ve blocked me too. Anyway, on the extremely rare opportunity that I see you online, everything flashes back as if it happened yesterday. Ugh. But seriously, thanks for everything and being part of my life.
Enough drama. Let’s all be fabulous!
Sweet dreams to myself.
Let me plant some seedlings first before we go
to the main course.
Three cheers for the girlie gang @ Handbag_Fetish at LiveJournal. I love you gals – it’s people like you and me who are responsible for keeping the global economies afloat. While everyone shops for stupid, silly things like food (purge), diapers (meow) and books (say what now), screw what everyone else thinks and flex that plastic like there’s no such thing as tomorrow on life’s NECESSITIES such as handbags and fantastic access-wa.
I love people from Malmo, Sweden, wherever that is. Big kisses from the fabulous third world from me to you. The same applies to people in Munich. Bryanboy loves you, you and you!
To my British friends and loyalists, I would like to wish a big tata, farewell, goodbye and peace out to our friend BNP founder John Tyndall. May your soul rest in peace and may your ashes remain white rather than gray. Afterall, gray is a colour; you certainly don’t want any coloured things miscegenating with white.
The same applies to people of the coloured
kind in London: note: please do not carry a
backpack unless you want to be mistaken
as a terrorist.
In fact, anyone over the age of 9 in this planet should never, ever, ever carry a backpack. Even if it’s Vuitton (may god bless my soul). Even if it’s a black Prada nylon backpack that should’ve died along with the 90s. Leave the backpacks to the white backpackers (who usually come in couples) of the Australian kind.
Another boring Friday morning for me here in the cesspit of the third world. My weekly FedEx shipment from the US arrived today with DVDs I rented from Netflix.com. One of them is called "A Home at the End of the World" starring no other than my fuck buddy Colin Farrell.
I rented this film because I was intrigued after seeing it on this blog.
The film was alright. Errr how would I put it?
Seriously, I’m at a loss of words it’s not even funny.
It was alright. If you want to see Colin Farrell act like a dumb, childish person then yes, please feel free to see this film.
Not too keen on the story line. It made me sad, yes, but that’s about it.
I guess it wasn’t clear to ME about Colin’s character’s sexuality.
I mean, did he fancy THE gay guy? I mean, yeah, they masturbated each other when they were kids, yes, he kissed the gay guy despite having a "girlfriend" claiming it’s a "brotherly kiss", and yes, he selected to live with the dying gay guy with AIDS over the girl and his own daughter.
And then one thing occured to me.
Colin is like one of those "gay for pay" people in a way.
He was "gay" to Jonathan because Jonathan provided some sort of a life (friendship, support, family, etc) to Colin ever since they first met when they were kids. And in a way, Colin was feeling guilty/thankful to Jonathan hence he’s being "gay".
UGH. Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s giving me a fucking headache.
Now you can erase "FILM CRITIC" from my list of job prospects. I can’t even write a proper review for god’s sake.
CAN WE JUST STICK TO GAY PORN PLEASE? COCK, ASS, BOLLOCKS, SWEAT, CUM, NO DIALOGUES.
I dunno. It’s all too confusing to me. I’d rather stick to chick flicks and movies that doesn’t require friction of my mere 2 brain cells. I’m sure you people know how hard it is for inbred blondes like me.
Typical Sunday late nighter here. I’m bored and I’ve got nothing to do. Blondes such as myself have to use moments of loneliness to exercise our intellect. Thought I’d create some friction using my mere 2 brain cells and purge whatever is left in my head.
Bryanboy loves TheBosh. Read my interview here.
I also created a MySpace profile after being bombarded with requests. Add me if you love me. www.myspace.com/bryanboy.
(BRB – I gotta take a poo)
Back. Not a lot in there.
Say hi to my friends at the LunchBox. Apparently, I’m the talk of the town where people with eating disorders gather around in a circle and purge their soggy biscuits in a synchronized orgy. Some bimbo pretended to buy an LV bag and used my photos on there. One of the members had impressive 007 skills and found her way to my blog. Hilarious.
Click here for the discussion thread. Registration required to read the spectacle. I love fat fans. These bitches are lucky. For years I’ve *forced* myself to develop an eating disorder but I simply can’t resist food. One day when I lose my anorexic-wannabe figure, you’ll find me in that place.
Thought I’d mention, my fat ass just finished an entire bowl of microwaved pasta and a can of coke. Insomniac/drug addict food. I really should switch to rabbit food soon. Less calories, less trips to the magic white bowl that flushes.
I’m off to see my doctor later this morning. I stopped taking my bronchitis meds cause they gave me palpitations. Even 2 grams of cocaine don’t do me shit as far as I remember. But these meds, I’m telling you, it feels like as if I’ve got some tribal drumbeaters shoved deep in my chest.
I haven’t stopped smoking. I’ve cut back though. Down to half a pack per day. Except on weekends. Hah. In fact, I haven’t smoked a cigarette from 2PM on Saturday until I got up yesterday.
Speaking of vices, I thought I’d share an old story from the Bryanboy Life Archives. I still haven’t disposed these cock drugs so if you know anyone whose got a problem getting their pecker up, let me know.
A few months ago, while hopping from one drugstore to another to get Seroxat & Xanax to no avail (it’s pretty much out of stock everywhere. too many insane people in this city I guess), I came across a newly-opened pharmacy in town who was willing to dispense pretty much anything they have – I was able to get a month’s supply of Seroxat without prescription despite leaving mine at home. All it took was me filling out this form asking for my shrink’s name, phone number and hospital. I happily obliged.
Once I had my insanity pills in my hand, I suddenly got an orgasm: my pill-buying experience was effortless! If you do the math correctly, why not, you know, buy other pills… I then had a *good* panic attack. Ok. Which ones should I buy?
I quickly channeled my inner Pete Doherty-slash-Internet Geek and immediately thought of the tens thousands of spam I get in my email accounts on a daily basis. I mean, surely if they promote it by spam, it must be good — too good to be true.
It took me about a minute to think of what I’m gonna get. Being the novice at prescriptions, trust me darling, I’ve only done streetwear for years, I somewhat had a hard time calculating — don’t blame me, I only have 2 brain cells.
Ambien? sleeping aid. No.
Phentermine? diet pills. No.
Oxycontin? narcotics anonymous pain killers. No.
Viagra? cock drug. I still have the libido of a 16 year old, thank you very much. But still, I’m a botom bitch, so even if I had a 26-inch hard, throbbing cock, it would be useless cause I take it up the shithole. Well, after my SSRIs, that’s a different story, anyway, so, no, mot definitely Not.
And then it suddenly occured to me — Cialis.
That’s right. What the hell is Cialis? I mean,
it starts with the letter C, like Chanel, so
surely it can’t be that bad, right?
I sashayed my way back to the counter, flashing the counter girl with my biggest smile, giving her high voltage "I always get what I want" attitude and told her I want 10 pills of Cialis.
That’s right. 10 pills. Surely it can’t be that bad and I could easily dispose it if I didn’t want it in the first place.
A couple of seconds later, she came back with 8 pills. Unfortunately they were out of stock. I paid her in cash, about US$110 for all 8 pills.
Like a fashion victim coming out of an
Hermes store, I quickly opened one of
the boxes when I got inside the car and
then reality hit me. Not in my buttocks.
But in my balls.
One look at the insert and at the back of the box and it said "Indication: Treatment of Erectile Dysfunction".
My god — I bet everyone at the pharmacy were laughing their asses off as soon as I got out of the store.
I swear to god, never again I’ll go to that pharmacy. I don’t have the face to show after this whole hoola baloo.
And never again I’ll touch prescription. Like what I said before, sober is the best way to go.
And vodka red bulls.
Memories eh? They’re nice to have.
Lesson learned: don’t buy drugs if you don’t
know what they are.
I had to learn it the
hard blonde way.
So again, if you know anyone who needs this cock drug, let me know.
BTW, here are more pics of my new Balenciaga bag as requested by one of my readers. I added a watermark so those bitches can’t use pics and pretend they bought shit. As my friend Gian said, we can smell poverty from afar.
Enjoy! I’ll use my bag later when I go to my pulmonologist.
P.S. Infatuation should be removed in the dictionary. You’re in, you’re fat, you’re uation, which is a shortcut for ovulation. In other words, infatuation SUCKS.
P.P.S.S. I like you. No matter what they say.
P.P.P.S.S.S. Speaking of like, when are you getting me a 26-karat ring ala Paris Squared? It doesn’t have to be a diamond you know, you can start with Cubic Zirconia. That’s fine coz we all know diamonds don’t last forever. CZs on the other hand lasts as long as we both enjoy. At least they’re disposable. You know who you are.
P.P.P.P.S.S.S.S. For the love of god already, please email me and tell me you love me. email@example.com. Text messages/SMS can be sent to +63-915-785-1492.
It’ Sunday, early early morning and I just got up about an hour ago. I pretty much spent my entire Saturday, sleeping. Entire day gone to waste. I got home at around 1 or 2PM yesterday. I can’t for the life of god, exactly remember as I didn’t pay attention to the time. Anyhoo, I’m feasting on a bar of cadbury dairy milk because I have a sugar craving. No wonder I’m getting fat.
Onto the juicy bits, shall we?
My designer buddy Gian and I checked in at Linden Suites on Friday afternoon because it was the same day as his overhyped/well-promoted/much anticipated fashion show.
That’s a Gian Romano tank top I’m wearing ova there, paired off with gray Neil Barrett jeans and a Dior Homme jacket. Anyway, Gian’s been working on his collection for god, 4-5 months, after he did his internship with As Four in NYC.
To be honest, I haven’t had the chance to take photos of the clothes/models on the runway because everything was sooo fast. I thought the menswear bit are much much better, and stronger than the womenswear, particularly the jackets. My favourite piece has got to be this black women’s biker-type jacket etc. It’s got such good construction and tailoring.
I saw some of my old-time, the usual, model friends (Razel, Ria, Amy) backstage:
I’ll probably post pictures of the collection once it’s out on the papers. Overall I think it was a hit. Congrats Gian for the good work – I hope everything sells out so you’ll have the dough for our little trip this fall. ;)
After the show, we all went back to the hotel to chill-out, change outfits and relax. We went to Cafeteria for a quick meal before going to Embassy, ugh, as usual. Everyone, for some reason, ends up at Embassy one way or another.
Saw quite a few familiar faces and a couple of new ones. It’s all good. I even had a girl come up to me telling me she reads my blog; I thought that was sweet. I was sooo drunk (and well, whatever) that night nothing registers on my mind anymore. But yes, I thought you were fun — so please, when you can, email me to say hi. ;)
There was even this really really cute short midget-type guy who was behind me in the queue on the toilets. I forgot his name. I thought he had nice teeth.
And I thought he was sweet because after using the toilets, he came up to me to hand back some rolled paper note I left at the toilet. Not that it mattered anyway, it was less than $2! LOL.
And then there’s this couple, Victor and Jenn. Victor is one of those male models that Gian used for the show. That’s right my friends, "male model".
I’m probably gonna get flack for this but seriously, what is the first thing that comes to your mind whenever you hear the term "male model"? In my case it’s not even zoolander.
It’s like whenever I hear that term, I get instant
hallucinations… visions… mental images of tall,
gigantic steroid-taking, gym-bunnying, rock-hard
abs, ogres who take off (and of course, wear)
their clothes, all in the name of "male beauty",
a concept that I kind of don’t understand.
I’m sure you all know the stereotypes — the ones who would use their bodies to befriend, blackmail and sleep with any faggot booking agent, designer, scout, photographer, PR person, society matron, industry fanatics, whatever, just to get some work. And since their careers don’t last too long, they all end up being hiv-infected prostitutes, waiters, failed actors, or worse, porn stars.
I dunno. I just find them kind of intimidating in a way. Big bodies and all. Ugh! Or maybe I’m just used to hanging out and seeing girl models. Either way, whatever. It’s just me being judgmental.
But Victor and his girlfriend were nice. We had small chats here and there and Victor was kind of suggesting that I get a hobby of some sort. Well, my blog is my hobby and I kinda like to shop. Does that count? Hahaha. I didn’t know how to answer that one to be honest.
And fuck the gym. Oh yes, fuck the gym.
I kinda had a fight with Gian because I was too fucked up in the hotel. He wanted to sleep that bad (after clubbing/nose powdering) but being the insomniac that I am, I stayed up all day packing my stuff and being all noisy etc.
And then there was the little drama with Razel. Oh well.
Anyhoo, my driver arrived late, something like 12 or whatever at the hotel, then we dropped Gian off at home, then went all the way down south to drop Jenn and Victor home. Had another trip at McDonald’s — simply couldn’t resist having a nice, good ol Big Mac after all that crap.
I hope I’ll patch things up with Gian. Soon. Otherwise, I’ll just confine to my newly purchased Balenciaga bag for now — Michael Salientes, you are **such** a bad influence.
Baboosh for now.
I got a couple of emails from y’all about that picture of me with really thin arms. Yeah, I noticed that too. I actually kinda like it. Now I know which angle to use to achieve that skeletal arms effect. Hahahaha! *kidding*. Nah, I thought that was really skinny looking.
I don’t think I’m *that* skinny. I mean, yes, I am skinny, fine, there’s no need to propel anorexia by saying "I’m fat", but personally, I think my body is normal and healthy for any 5’9/5’10, 23 year old boy. I mean, I weighed myself earlier today and I’m like (shock-horror) 124 lbs. I’m 14 pounds overweight. I’ve got man tits and love handles for god’s sake. I think those 2 are the 14 pounds I needed to shed. Oh and my bingo wings, too.
Warning: you are about to see me reeking of
masculinity and testosterone. I recommend that
you scroll down as fast as you can or get those
vomit bags ready.
Hilarious, isn’t it? I’ve never done sleaze before and I thought this is funny.
Sucky sucky 5 dolla, me love you long time 10
dolla, you pay 20 dolla I gib free roast duck!
Eeeeeew. God I look like a fucking $5 prostitute on those photos.
Do I officially look like a boy now?
Awful eh? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Remind me not to do porn.
Nobody will ever buy porn with me on it.
It will be a major flop. I think I’m better off being the little vain fairy that I am with the side job as a fluffer – I’m good behind the scenes. I give very good blowjobs, afterall.
I confess — I’ve been chit chatting to sexually-confused, underaged, jail magnets these days. God I’m such a pedophile.
Meet Mr. Leon Grant Bussinger of www.grantb88.com.
Grant is a 17 year old hardcore republican proud WASP from the swamps of Tampa, Florida. You should’ve seen his reaction and his balls when I told him he looked Jewish and how can he be a WASP when both of his names are blacker than
Naomi Campbell, Iman, Michael Jordan, Lil Kim.
He’s such a darling. We talked on the phone sometime last week for 3 whole hours with him saying "Oh my god" for at least 300 times per hour.
He also claims he’s straight however, my ever reliable gaydar says he’s lying. I mean, come on, what kind of straight 17 year old reads GQ, wants to study acting in Julliard (sp?), currently a waiter at Shake and Bake (knock-knock-cliche, we all know about waiters who want to be actors but end up being drug addicts and prostitutes), wants Prada, knows ton about fashion, hangs out with a ton of girls (fag hags), whines, whinges and complains about everything in the world whenever the opportunity arrives?
EVERYBODY TELL HIM HE’S IN DENIAL. D-E-N-I-A-L DENIAL!
THE WALK IN WARDROBE IS SO MUCH
BETTER THAN THE FUCKING CLOSET!
TALK ABOUT SUFFOCATION. YA NEED
SPACE FOR YER HANDBAGS SWEETHEART
Remember: teenage angst is your one-way
ticket to enchanted fagdom!
Anyway, I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not Grant is a breeder or a fag. I say FAG!
Regardless of his sexuality, I think he’s a really nice guy and I’m glad that we talked. If only he’s legal… and if only miscegenation is acceptable, I wouldn’t mind him being the father of my first child.
Think about it: mixed raced babies are the Chanel of babies. And there’s no other baby that I want coming from that of a **GAY** republican. Ok, maybe not Ed Schrock’s. EEEW. Nasty eh?
I love you all!
P.S. www.bryanboy.com is now live!
What an awful, awful day today was.
Don’t laugh – for some strange reason, God decided to punish me over the weekend for all the bad deeds I’ve done to mankind. He gave me a hideous zit on my left cheek. I don’t blame him though, I know I’ve been a really bad girl.
But come to think of it, he gave it to me right when I was suffering from a cough, colds and a chest infection/bronchitis.
Fuck it, it probably wasn’t even God. I bet it was Satan.
So off I went to my aesthetician first thing earlier in the morning. I had my zit injected, I also had an emergency extraction facial just to be sure I’m black/whitehead-free and I also had the usual microdermabrasion session. Gotta stay/gotta be flawless you know. I’ve got a gay couple flying in from Kuala Lumpur to visit Manila and I gotta play Little Miss Tour Guide, something I really despise because there’s absolutely nothing to do in Manila, not to mention the crap weather (heat and rain) and the lack of places to go to. I’ll probably just buy them dinner and a couple of drinks at some bar and let them explore on their own. I told one of the guys that I don’t go out during the day unless it’s life-threatening.
Anyway, my driver was off today so it was my fat bastard bitch of a sister who drove me to my aesthetician today. On our way back, I told her to stop on the road, in front of a shop, because I want to buy today’s newspapers. She stopped, I went out of the car and went inside the shop to buy newspapers.
I went out of the shop, not even 1 minute later, and she was NOWHERE to be seen.
I was standing there, on the road under the blistering heat, wearing nothing but a sweaty white t-shirt, gray tracksuit pants, white trainers and black chanel sunglasses. It was hot as in hotter than hell. I just had a facial done so my face is all red, I don’t have a cellphone, my handbag or even extra cash with me. Nothing. I felt absolutely naked. I was my "crash moment" (love that new term, thanks Oprah and thanks Hermes). I was so vulnerable that you can sing Mary had a little lamb in front of me and I’ll just die right then and there.
I went back to the shop and asked the lady whether she can send my sister a text message or not. Thank god she was nice. My sister replied back, saying that she’s about 150 meters away from me, all I had to do was to walk straight (it’s just 1 long, main road). Apparently she had to park there otherwise, she’ll block traffic on the road.
That’s fucking bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit.
Guess what I did? Guess what I fucking did?
I HAD TO FUCKING WALK 150 METERS,
IN MY CURRENT STATE OF
VULNERABILITY, WITHOUT A PHONE,
WITHOUT A HANDBAG, WEARING
SKANKY CLOTHES, MY FACE IS ALL
RED, I’M TIRED, THEN ADD THE
NAUSEOUS HEAT. MY SISTER IS A
CRAZY DERANGED BASTARD.
There’s only one thing in this world that you can do to seriously piss me off.
If you want, you can go ahead and steal my handbag, steal my credit cards, my phone, my money, my wallet, my drugs, you can get me fat, make me step on dog’s poo, make me touch some animal’s genitalia, make me eat animal internal organs, heck, you can even rape me, sexually abuse me, molest me, give me a sexually-transmitted disease, mutiliate me, castrate me, whatever.
Do anything you want to do to me and I won’t complain.
As long as you don’t make me WAIT or WALK.
Don’t get me wrong. I do walk. But with the following stipulations:
a) only in temperatures of 65 degrees F (or 18 Celsius) or colder unless I’m on vacation;
b) only if I’m fully dressed up, lip gloss required
c) only if it’s 10-15 meters or less.
The most I’ll walk at any given time is 50 meters and I have to have nice music blaring on my ipod or on the background.
But walking in crap clothes, in crappy hot weather, with a crappy face?
Come on, it’s just as bad as MURDER.
Oooooo my blood boiled earlier, I wanted to strangle my fat cow bitch of a sister.
If only my mum’s cousin didn’t arrive when we got back, she’s probably in the funeral home by now, getting her makeup done.