Let’s face it. There are only 2 types of places in this planet where a 400-pound man such as myself can turn into a beautiful, skinny, willowy swan. Either at your local liposuction clinic or the gym.
(ok, make that 3 places, cause you can snort cocaine in clubs and then dance the night away to burn calories. let’s forget drug abuse though. drugs are so… what’s a nice word… dark ages ago)
I once went to the gym for about 8 months, starting from January 2003. The one nearest my house was Fitness First – it was literally a 3 minute drive. Could be less, depending on how pomped up my driver was at the time.
I was one of the early birds. You’ll never see me at the gym after 11AM. For several months, I religiously went there from 6:00AM until 10:00AM. I abused all the cardio stuff I could possibly do — 30 minutes on the treadmill, a couple of minutes on the ellipticals, glides, blah blah, and a few minutes doing resistance.
I *never* did the weights because of personal insecurities and issues against the hordes of muscle maries lifting 50-pound weights. Why, why oh why oh why oh why should I, who, at that time, was 5-foot-9 weighing 100 pounds, subject myself to lifting weights, surrounded by steroid-injecting, drug-abusing, metabolism-obsessed, sweaty, bulging, muscular shitholes?
Deep down inside I have this nagging feeling that I’m gonna be the subject of ridicule and laughter for trying to lift a 5-pound dumb (yes) bell. So yes, I avoided the weights altogether.
I did go there one time and yes, a muscle mary bitch was even friendly to me and taught me how to do it right.
But no. I just don’t wanna go there.
In any case, I have to admit I enjoyed going to the gym. I had a little crush thing there who was quite alright. Every bloody day he was there, spent most of the time doing eye contact. It took us around 5 god damn months just to actually say hi to each other and in the end, I didn’t quite like him because he is a student. Icky eh?
Everything was fun up until the day where this
vicious, old-aged, vintage, fat, wrinkly just-
waiting grandmother-type chit chatted to my mom
on the elliptical.
The VO-AVFWJG had the fucking nerve to ask my mother "who is that faggot talking on his mobile phone on the treadmill? He’s been there for 30 minutes now and doesn’t he know mobile calls are expensive?"
To my mom’s amusement, she said "I don’t know".
Later that day, my mom told me about it and I asked her point blank why the hell she didn’t say anything about me being the result of her first fuck 18 (+4) years ago. She said she didn’t want to ruin the VO-AVFWJG’s moment.
Since then, I’ve never set foot to the gym because of embarassment. I enjoyed talking to my friends while I’m on the damn treadmill. Every day, I speed dial my friends and gossip. It was the only time for me to catch up with my friends from all corners of the planet. Early morning here, early evening in the US/late evening in Europe. Multi-task silvous plait. Burn calories and gossip at the same time — while being sober.
Fast forward 2 years later…
Earlier this morning when I got up, I noticed my love handles are getting bigger. Not that it’s new or anything. But this time, they’re really inflated. Somehow overnight, I got pregnant, gave birth and now I’ve got post-pregnancy fat.
One of my clients said he bought an elliptical trainer last week and he’s been enjoying it. Like myself, he works at home and going to the gym can be a pain sometimes. He does run every now and then — you know, run like running on the streets, something I could never, ever, ever be caught dead doing in public. He also said something about working out, blah blah bullshit.
I got inspired and thought, well, since I don’t want to go the gym, why not have my own mini-gym.
My mom mentioned she wants to buy a treadmill so we can all run while watching TV/doing rounds of phone gossip but she backed out because my dad said we’d eventually get sick of it… and they already go to the gym anyway.
Whatever. They need to sort out their issues. I’ve got my own.
I came across this website called FitnessQuest.com and ordered 2 things — the Total Gym 1700 Club and the Ab Lounge Ultimate.
I know they’re just basic home devices whatever and nothing as sophisticated as real gym equipment but I’m worried about space etc. I got them at a bargain too, roughly around $540 for both. I’m having it sent to my office in the US who will then FedEx it to me. I’d say about 3 weeks and I’ve got my own mini gym. Till then, all I can do is sit here and get myself as pregnant as possible.
Personally I have doubts with these "get-nice-abs-at-home" equipment but I thought I’d give it a try. I’ve never really met (or heard of) anyone who have used home equipment and gotten good results. Everyone got theirs at the gym.
God, I don’t even want a 6-pack. That’s just too… disgusting. So so outré. I want a flat, painfully small waist and long, skinny arms to match. Heck, all I want is a body of a skinny, pre-pubescent 11 year old boy. I want to be a pedophile magnet — at 22. Chicken at its finest. Looks can sometimes kill and if I had a body such as the one I just mentioned, all these dirty pedophile scumbags will die. Nya nyi nya nyi nya nya you can look but ya can’t have what you see you dirty old fart.
Enough fitness talk. I need a burger. A big, fat, juicy one.
I just looooove going thru some of my old stuff. I was bored out of my mind while cleaning my room — the only place in the house where household help are banned — not that I’ve got anything to hide — trust me, it’s just not viable to have vibrators, handcuffs and porn in this house. Everything will always be discovered by someone.
You think you’ve got skeletons in your closet? If you’ve got skeletons, I’ve got cadavers in my wardrobe. Yes. Cadavers. No amount of dead bones can beat the hell out of rotten, flesh-infested cadavers. My past is THAT bad.
It’s a shame I wasn’t born in the 70′s, I would’ve spent my teenage years in the colourful 80′s. Think neon bangles, asymetrical tops and high hair. Oh yes. The higher the hair the closer to god. But alas, the 80′s brought me nothing but tacky grief.
Anyhoo, I thought I’d share a couple of pictures. Blast from the past they say.
Picture of me on my 6th grade graduation. Look at how I appear to be winking in front of the camera. Gross, isn’t it? I look like I got a stroke or something. At 12.
A picture of an anorexic 17 or 18 year old me swinging an extra large Hermes handbag — actually — this ain’t a handbag, this is fuckin luggage. Take note of the hair. It’s a wig that belongs to one of my friends who have leukemia when I visited her in a hotel. Yeah, leukemia… or whatever disease it is that makes your hair fall off when you get chemotherapy. Look at those arms. My god, I miss them. You can’t really get any skinnier than that. I think I was like 85 pounds or something. Click the thumbnails for 3 other wannabe trannie whore pics.
Man I looked like a cheap trash whore.
Picture of me and my best friend Tony 2-3 years ago in Amanpulo. My cheeks are soo chubby and my mouth looks like it’s gonna spit/puke any second. Ya think being a chav is a 2004 thing? He’s been a chav before chavs were born in this planet. Ya can’t get any chavvier than someone who was born from Liverpool. It took me a good 3 whole days of 8-hour sunbathing to achieve that tan whereas he ended up looking like a lobster.
Speaking of Tony, whom I owe a phone call this week, the poor guy is flying to New York from London today for 6 weeks. Like everyone else in this world (except me), he’s venturing out to the big apple to find a better job. He quit his job last year because he’s just utterly sick of London. According to him, he’ll spent the next 6 weeks looking for a job in the music industry… and a company who can sponsor him a visa. If he’s lucky, good. If not, he’ll go back to London and live his life. I told him a few weeks ago that getting a US Working Visa is like asking for the moon to turn blue. I mean, with all the illegal immigrant boat people all over the world, I have the impression getting a working visa is hard. I just wish him luck though.
Anyway, I’m off. My mom’s throwing one of her dinner parties with her stanky friends and I have to take a shower. I smell like a goat already and it ain’t funny.
Hugs and kisses.
I’m terribly, terribly sorry for the lack of updates. I can’t believe I’ve just put you guys on a limbo and haven’t updated in ages. I’ve been extremely busy at work and I’ve been feeling down lately.
In any case, let’s get down to business.
Sometime last week, I rejoined this UK-based gay personals website called OUTINTHEUK.com. I promise you, that site is the breeding ground of bitchiness. In fact, I don’t even go there to make friends or to make sucky sucky 5 dolla offers to uncut europeans. Instead, I go there for their "boards". The boards feature is just like any online forum, except everyone there reeks of bitchiness and drama. It’s a good thing really — put those social skills into action.
I was bored one time so I decided to give these
bland Brit gay/bi boys an instant sex change.
If I were god, I’d give everyone in this planet fantastic plastic bodies… bodies that could make them earn several millions of dollars a year. So, armed with Macromedia Fireworks and Style.com, I gave them (and myself) the gift of beauty. OUTer beaty.
Click any of the thumbnails below to see my creations.
A new window will pop up with a long graphic containing a batch of hot chicks. They’re child-safe so don’t you worry about nipples and orifices being exposed to your offspring.
If the image map doesn’t work, use these links instead:
I think there were 1 or 2 guys who complained how they didn’t like their dresses and how they want to be a slut versus a glamorous gal but I told them I don’t do porn — I only create beautiful people.
Now that’s all said and done, there’s this one guy, Hembers and he turned me into Paris Hilton.
They’re very hot chicks, don’t you agree?
So out of all the hot chicks you’ve seen, who do YOU think is the hottest? Answers on comments please.
Ciao for now.
It’s 6 in the morning and I just had a row with my mom about an hour ago.
My younger brother’s new (and extremely loud with a nasty ring tone) cellphone has been nagging for the past 2 hours. I swear I heard the most repulsive sounds at this time of the day — if you think verbal diarrhea is bad, his cell phone’s tones are leprosy of the ears. 2 hours of consecutive ringing of all sorts: one for his alarm, a ring tone for callers, then another one for text messages. And boy… no amount of alarm can wake the bitch up. He’s sleeps like a frozen can of lard in the middle of a blizzard.
Since he won’t get out of bed and his mobile ain’t on silent, my mom asked me to go to his room and grab his damn phone to see who’s been calling and sending him text messages. With his phone on my hand, I went to the kitchen and read the message out to my mom.
"gud mrng baby. im sori abt lst nyt –JC"
A couple of minutes later, he got up and went to the kitchen. My mom asked him who’s the whore that’s calling/txting him at this time of the day. The fat cow ignored her. In a span of 15 minutes, my mom asked him the same question and he didn’t respond. The fat cow turned into a silent lamb. My mom got fed up and went back to her coffee.
Me: "Ma, why are you tolerating this sort of attitude? Go ask the rude bastard child who it was. It was nasty of him to ignore you like that."
Mom: "Will you please stop giving me a sermon at this time of the day, Bryan? It’s too early and I don’t want to hear any word from you."
I swear I wanted to pull her hair but I won’t cause she’s my mother. I kept quiet from that point on focused on my breakfast. I don’t blame her, cause before my younger brother’s phone ruined our breakfast… and before I asked her that "why are you.." question, I was giving her a sermon on how she should stop feeding us cholesterol-infested fried stuff in the morning because we’re all not getting any younger.
I suspect that my obese, wart-necked, the sole family last name torch-bearer sibling has a girlfriend. Probably one of those breast-feeding-in-front-of-a-webcam, nasty slut whoring i’ll-show-you-my-tits-for-a-top-up-credit-on-my-prepaid-mobile-phone mother fuckers he picked up online, just what my sister said when asked me what the fight was all about.
Yesterday was a semi-productive day. I had my weekly glycopeel cleaning extraction facial + power peel session done. I’m planning to go out this weekend with my friends and I want to have a clear and flawless face. As long as it’s not bukkake, I love facials. There’s this undescribable feeling of satisfaction after having someone extract all the white & black heads, pore grime etc. from your face. It keeps me pimple-free. Can you imagine? I’m turning 18 (+5) years old in about 2 months. It’s completely unacceptable for me to have pimples cause, at least in most cultures, I’m no longer a minor.
I also don’t like those "relaxing" facials at spas where they lather your face up with an abundance of fruit-smelling "herbal" creams. They won’t do you any good, trust me.
If you want a good facial, get the hardcore extraction ones.
The ones where they’ll put chemicals, the ones where they’ll prick your pores to pick those disgusting pore-blocking maggots… the ones where they’ll inject cortisone into micro, fetus zits so they’re abort abort aborted before they even give birth to your face.
Peeling/Microdermabrasion sessions are good for your face, too. You’ll need to get rid of all dead skin so you’ll have that healthy, natural glow.
The downside of having facials/peels is the fact that you’ll have a red face for the next 24 to 36 hours. It depends on your skin sensitivity. You also can’t wash your face until the following morning. After that, you’ll have fucktastically brilliant skin. A face that you’ll be proud of, at least until your next facial.
Trust me, I’m not vain. It’s just that I simply don’t feel confident if I know I’ve got all these white and black heads, zits and such on my face. I couldn’t possibly face anyone if I knew I have this pus-erupting volcano on my cheek, nose or wherever.
I thought I’d share 3 pic of me that my sister took at my aesthetician’s clinic. God I look like a battered wife cadaver who got slapped by a deadbeat husband in the face. My face is all red from the facial abuse I got. But… no pain, no gain.
Click the thumbnails to view the supersized, extra large version.
After the facial stuff, I had a haircut with my stylist at Franck Provost, then did a little bit of shopping — bought 2 jackets, a top, some Obagi foaming gel and a carton of marlboros.
ROOM TO USE MY PRINTER AND HE
FOUND MY BLOG ON MY BROWSER.
NO DOUBT HE READ SOME OF THE ENTRIES.
I HATE IT. I REALLY REALLY DO.
AND ALL HE SAID WAS "YOU’RE BITCHY AND
GO AWAY BABYSITTER!!!!
I wish you all a prosperous 2005.
20 more minutes and it’s January 1.
Another crappy number to be added to my age.
Is there such a thing such as a time freeze? You know, botox for calendar, that sort of thing?
Happy new year to all of you.
I finally got my arse go to the cardiologist today with 2 of my younger sisters.
After 2 long hours of waiting and some chest and back fondling using a stethoscope from Dr. Salvador (who, for a short, vintage, mid-30′s man, had a very good set of bright white teeth), he said I have this Costochondritis condition.
Also, I wasn’t looking closely at my ECG results. Although the machine said I have "Borderline Left Atrial Abnormalities" and "Left Ventricular Hypertrophy", the first cardiologist (not Dr. Salvador) crossed out both of those items.
I pointed this out to Dr. Salvador and then he looked at my ECG test and he said I’m still in the "normal" range. I guess, thank god, all this chest pain I’ve been feeling the past few weeks wasn’t anything life-threatening (i.e heart condition).
Back to chain smoking, cocaine and mind-blowing sex, yes?
I did the dreaded switch to Marlboro Lights earlier today and won’t smoke Marlboro reds anymore. I still need that nicotine fix one way or another, even if I’m smoking paper (lights).
BTW, enough of this whole chav thing. I figured
being a chav is so not me.
1) Wear fabulous shoes.
My sister got her internship at a firm simply because she minced around on her 4 inch Dolce & Gabbanas. It made this clickity heels noise and the interviewer asked her where her shoes are from — the old woman and her had the same shoe size and they both had the same taste in shoes.
2. Flirt with the security guard or the nearest human male near reception.
3. Mince your way into the interviewing room.
4. FIRST IMPRESSIONS COUNT.
Flash that billion dollar smile and give your interviewer a wink when you first open the door.
5. Smile lots and answer his/her questions.
6. Do not touch anything on the table. Put your hands either on your hips, lap or keep your arms folded in front of your chest.
7. Keep in mind that interviewing is such a horrible task. I bet you 100% that THAT person hates his/her job so much cause all they bloody do is sit behind some rancid desk interviewing unemployed mortals (like you) pretending someone they’re not just to get a job. They see all sorts of these desperate jobseeker bimbos every day. Don’t project a fake impression.
8. Try to insert some spice and happiness into your conversation. Your fun attitude might be the key to getting that job.
9. Don’t forget to wiggle your butt out and airkiss the person before you leave.
If everything goes for the worst, or if he/she is asking you hard
questions, rub your nipples, lick your fingers in front of him
and tell him/her "let’s party sweetie!"
and then that’s it. Good luck!