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.
5:44 AM where I’m at and boy do I feel so miserable.
You know you’re missing out on life when you spend your Friday 3AMs eating corn out of a can.
Yesterday was alright. Been raining on and off where I live. But that didn’t stop me from getting my treatments done.
I accomplished a lot yesterday actually. I had my usual facial, power peel, massage and a body scrub.
I also have bittersweet news – my aesthetician, Joyce, will quit on August 10 because she got her US immigrant visa approved and she’s moving to the USofA with her familia as a caregiver to wrinkly old people.
It’s saddening cause she’s the only person I’ve entrusted over the past year and a half digging and extracting my face, scrubbing each and every slit and crevice on my body, etc. In other words, she’s the only person in this world I’ll get naked for each and every week; she knows my body and all the hidden secrets and gossip it has — more so than my ex-boyfriends and shag buddies.
But hey, I totally understand her need for greener pastures, so to Joyce – I’ll definitely miss you.
On that note, I did some normal things people do. I went to the gas station, went to an ATM machine and went to a fast food place – no more big macs for me. I’m on a diet. I only had fries and lemonade.
I was planning to go to some gay speed dating thing yesterday but as one of my friends said, gay, speed dating and Manila doesn’t belong to each other. It can never fit into one sentence.
A couple of moi-gang threw a mini "Miss Shapes" party at Manila DJ Club but being the hermit that I am, I decided to stay home. As always, I needed recovery time from the facial abuse I got yesterday.
So… here I am. All lonely, miserable and feeling crap.
Gawd I need change. I need a breakthrough. I need something to stimulate my poor soul.
Everything is just ugh, so tedious.
Anyone… or anyone who knows anyone with a big, thick 10-inch cock who wants to receive some sucking from me? I’ll do you for free. Yep – pro bono work. Charity indeed.
I love you, you love me, let’s get OD’ed on valiums.
No, it’s not Tinkerbell going to a funeral.
I won’t tell you what it’s for because I don’t know whether my FedEx package will arrive there just in time. If the FedEx rep I spoke to was accurate, they’ll most likely receive my entry this coming Friday. I’ll only publicize it here if they picked my entry and post it on their website. Fingers crossed. I hope they pick me. I’m so so nervous at the same time excited. It’s for charity anyway.
After much deliberation and thought, I decided to get rid of a really old Issey Miyake hoodie that I have at the back of my closet. I have no use for it at all. Some of the old things I selected from were my ultra used and abused approx. US$7,000 size 38 (yes, I was THAT skinny back then) Gucci python pants from Spring/Summer 2000 – flashback of the excess, my Alexander McQueen distressed denim jacket, McQueen mesh tank top or McQueen patchwork denim jeans.
I have really funny pictures of me back in the dark ages wearing these outfits. Currently I’m on my laptop, waiting for my younger brother to come home and sort my scanner out on my PC. As soon as he does, I’ll scan the pics and post it on Part 2. You’ll have a blast I think. Hah!
Bryanboy Trivia #260: When Bryan was a child, he plugged the TV, which was 110 Volts into a 220 electrical socket. He was lucky to be alive after being electrocuted, considering the outlet exploded right in front of his eyes. SInce then, he developed a phobia with all things electrical. He is scared of plugging things to sockets such as ipod/cellphone/digital camera chargers, holes, outlets, any cords etc to the back of a computer’s CPU, and turning on/off light switches, TV, DVD players etc. He always has to ask someone nearby to turn something on/plug something because of this phobia.
Enough of my excesses. Let’s go for minimal.
Curious what I recently had for lunch?
I need to purge now. And sleep. I’ve been up since god knows how long.
I’ll update later. I love you all.
Good morning to all of you worldwide cunts wherever you are. It’s 1:35AM on a Tuesday and I just got up. I’m starving!
Before I confess and unleash my inner demons to you my dear readers, I thought I’d pop in a couple of extra side dishes here and there. I hope all the sins, evil deeds and everything else that’s wrong, stays within this website. May god bless, forgive and fortify my soul.
First off, Sarah, thank you very much for bring to my attention my um, *cringes with shock and horror*, well, my alter-ago, www.brianboy.com – that’s Bryan spelt with an i, which makes it www.BRiANboy.com. Yes, my loyal readers, after months of concealing what my job is, Sarah finally discovered what I do for a living. NOT!
Next, I just got back from my pulmonologist and my paparazzi-slash-sisterette was able to take some shots. God I need a proper paparazzi this way I don’t have to pose. Hah! Crystal, here are some pictionary moments at the hospital parking lot. I’ve been trying to resurrect a skinny-off-duty-model-pre-brazilians-old-25-inch waist-earl jeans-wearing-effortless-rock-look but I made the dreaded mistake of wearing my fave cowboy boots instead of my Dior biker boots. Anyway, my arms look fat and it totally ruined the kodak moment.
Enough of this taken from the car shots. Man I look like a street tramp. A Chanel sunglasses, Balenciaga Bag wearing street tramp.
Wanna see me rough? I’ll give you rough.
I haven’t shaved my face for like a week
and a half now. I think I’m gonna grow
Now that pictionary is over, I might as well proceed with my confession.
I’m infatuated with someone. Deeply, madly, infatuated with someone.
The one that is almost borderline obsession because I googled to search for everything there is to know about him.
It’s been a few days now and I just can’t flush him out of my head.
I really like him.
His eyes says it all. Oh yes his shiny, shiny, shiny eyes.
You see, I don’t even like muscle marys. At all. I find them icky. I find them intimidating. I find them… awful.
But there’s always exceptions to the rule. Yes. EXCEPTIONS. You know who you are so fuck me. (Hint: his first name is Raul, his last name is Bova)
It’s so horrible that I’ve been living the past few days on a diet of sheer wishful thinking.
Why can’t I get this guy?
Is he even a fag?
Is he really a fag?
Is he even "bisexual"?
Does he have a girlfriend?
A cover-up girlfriend to keep the public satisfied?
All I can do at this point is to pray to the good lord almighty and the patron saint of fagdom, Patsy Stone, that he turn out to be gay.
And no, I haven’t thought about stealing his underwear contrary to what people think. As if that’s even possible. Hell-o.
As one guy told me, infatuation is worse than heroin.
If you’re infatuated but he isn’t then it’s obsession. Obsession can be as soon as 5 seconds after you’ve checked each other out.
But he hasn’t checked me out.
Not that I know of.
All I want is for him to look at me eyes and the give me a good ol hug and then a nice little snog action.
Again – wishful thinking. Hah!
Yes, he’s attractive. The first time I saw
him – shit, I had goosebumps. I was
gobsmacked. Fuck clouds in my coffee,
it was bukkake facial slapped on my face.
Ready boys and girls?
Thanks, Tr3nt, for the picture.
Vomit inducing drama eh? I bet you were
just as disappointed as I am. Heh!
Oh well. I like him.
So har dee har har.
P.S. To you my dear friends at Marc Jacobs. Did you guys get my fax? I know, I shouldn’t have don that Gucci Gladiator bag.
P.P.S.S. Email me and tell me you love me. You know who you guys are. email@example.com Or better yet, post comments and tell me you hate me.
P.P.P.S.S.S. According to my pulmonologist, my pill popping days are over. I can now safely smoke like a chimney again and ditch my bronchitis pills. I’m a healed man! All I need now is this nasal spray for a few weeks and that’s about it!
As my newfound friend Lucifer from Mexico says, a bottle of Fracas anyone?
I’m off to have lunch. Yes, at 2:05AM. I’ll update later.
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. firstname.lastname@example.org. 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.
First things first.
Both my sisters wanted to get their pedicures done at lunch time earlier and I tagged along cause it would’ve been nice to get some serious fresh air. Besides, I simply couldn’t sleep earlier.
Rather than babysitting the two at the nail bar, I asked our driver to drop me off to my pulmonologist. Very nice husband and wife team. They were very comforting. Dr. Andrew Gonzales, that’s his name. I still have this cough (from 2 weeks ago) that just won’t go and I sometimes find it painful whenever I smoke — DUH! He did this thing in my ears a couple of times, listened to my breathing, asked me all sorts of questions, the meds I’ve been taking etc.
Looks like I still have Acute Bronchitis, Allergic Rhinitis and Otitis Media. God, I’m such a diseased person. And there you have it — after 8 or 9 years of smoking Marlboro Reds, I finally contracted some damn respiratory disease.
My doc prescribed me all sorts of stuff, I have 6 new medications to add to my existing meds (3). He gave me this Budesonide Nasal Spray, PPA/Syndecol, Cetirizine, Norfloxacin/Euroflox, Bambuterol/Bambec and Mefenamic Acid. Add this to my daily diet of insanity pills – Seroxat, Rivotril and Xanax. God knows what my blood is made of already. At this rate, it won’t be long until I get narcotics.
Think about it, I’d be willing to skip all these if they just prescribe me 1 narcotic, oh yes, just 1, once a day, every day for a couple of days. The thought of me taking all these pills is just a royal pain in the ass.
Apres-Doctor, I asked my driver to bring me to the mall so I can comfort myself with my newfound disease.
Well hello — I’m in the third world so there’s
nothing comforting. Can you say the words
boresville and genericsville?
I ended up buying a magazine, went to Starbucks for some Iced Cafe Latte and smoked a couple of fags — yes, I know.
Then I dropped by at the department store, went straight to the Dior counter and bought 3 things – Dior Plastic Lip Gloss, some Bronze-like powder and Dior Skinflash Radiance Booster Pen. New additions to my ever-growing cosmetic collection. It’s funny how I have all these cosmetic but I don’t even use them!
You know what they say – the eye is hungrier
than the stomach.
French fries, mashed potatoes, veggies, coleslaw and side dishes:
Are you part of the gold-collar crowd? Yay for Simple Life 4.
Um, Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and fuck, yes, I’m flattered to have a fan, but why do I get the feeling there’s someone’s copying my writing style out there (hint: blind items), days after the plagiarism police notified me of such atrocity? I mean gawd, I don’t even know how to write, hence me asking for a Coffee Table Book deal. Hah!
Must buy soon – Dior Gisele Cannage Medium Handheld bag. $1,230 at Eluxury.com.
I’m planning to go to Moscow/Russia again for about 2-3 weeks on mid or late November, perhaps go on a 1-week expedition near the North Pole? Anyone wanna be travel budddies? You pay for your own airfare, your own expenses, I’ll cover the hotel, my airfare, my expenses. I don’t care whether you’re a girl or a boy, straight or gay as long as you are not heavier than my check-in luggage. Trust me on this one. Email me, email@example.com.
FYI, First Class fares from Bangkok to Moscow was around $1,500 and Biz was about $1,350 roundtrip; this was on crappy Aeroflot last year. Economy is much much cheaper I’m sure but I never fly economy.
If you’re coming from another part of the
world, I’m sure you can get your crotch to
Moscow much cheaper than a night with
a Vegas hooker.
In any case, email me, whoever you are, wherever you are in the world. It won’t hurt to say hi. Repeat after me: hi. "Hi!". I’m lonely. It’s 11:02PM.
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening wherever you are in the world.
I know it’s old news but it’s only until today that I got the chance to watch the Dior F/W Couture show. I take back what I said a few months ago when I thought Galliano’s gone sedation. His new stuff are spectacular; a great tribute to my good ol’ century-egg-old buddy Christian Dior.
Erin O’Connor – poised and perfect as ever.
My favourite was his take on the "New Look". Models twirling all over the place, fantastic beats, the fabrics, ever so lightweight, the clothes, everything – it was very dramatic and moving.
I’m just disappointed with Linda. Come on – she’s *the* original queen bee bitch but when she hit the runway, she walked as if she’s constipated. Someone should’ve taken the broomstick up her asshole backstage. She almost tripped, not once, but twice – unless my eyes prove me wrong. Even the skinny young eastern european ex-hookers had a better walk than Linda.
Note to Linda: the next time you’re doing runway,
please consider taking a wheelchair and an
oxygen tank with you. I love you, I really do,
but I’m concerned about your welfare.
Even Kirsty Hume, for fucks sake, who resurrected from the
abyss ashes, was more graceful than you.
Which outfit did I like most?
I’d make a very good grandmother if I had an
outfit like that.
P.S. Click here to view the entire Dior Collection in pictures or here if you want to see the video.
P.P.S.S. If you know any well-hung, under-30 year old, sugar older brother-type, please let me know. I want some serious couture. My email address is firstname.lastname@example.org.
Some early morning babble here. I’m having another costochondritis attack and my ribs are aching – there’s no better way to wait for the xanax to kick such as posting here.
If I’m not mistaken, sending unsolicited faxes, like spam, to random fax numbers/companies is illegal in the USA.
But I’m in the third world so that gives me
international & diplomatic immunity.
So here’s what I did earlier.
I searched on goodolgoogle for some random fax numbers of some publishers and literary agents – Simon & Schuster, IMG (yes, they do literary arts too, but heck, I want to be a superdupersuperdupersupermodel), Time Warner, Random House, etc. Once I had that list, I blasted their faxes with a simple, 1-page fax. Here’s a copy of the PDF file that I faxed and here’s a little graphic of what the fax looked like.
Seriously, I think it would be a fantastic thing for me to have my own coffee table book with all my pictures on it and my tales and my squabbles. It would be a very nice thing to have on each and every table or desk in the whole wide world. Your visiting guests will love you better than the stack of JC Penney or Victoria’s Secret catalog or whatever that you’ve got under your sofa.
Anyway, I could’ve selected a better-looking picture of me but I decided to be sedated. I mean, fuck it – it was around 4:30AM when I did the thing. Besides, I don’t want them to have some culture shock.
Hopefully by tomorrow, the lucky recipients of
my magic fax (otherwise known as gossipping
watercooler receptiobitches) will pass along my
domain name thru intraoffice gossip, post-it notes,
word of mouth etc.
Who knows, I might be set for global domination – KNOCK KNOCK CLICHE – a coffee table book, a clothing line, fragrance and then hollywood!
All it requires is a thick face darling. And there’s no other face thicker in this planet than mine.
People often think on how I have this so-called "glamorous" and "expensive" life. I don’t. I’m also just a middle class twit (honest!) who loves everything ghetto, what’s that term, ghetto fabulouzzzzz.
Like normal commoners and mere mortals such as yourself, I, too, have this thing about McDonalds. I’m actually worse than a pregnant bitch when I get these food cravings. One day I’ll crave for true, hard-to-find Indian food, the next day I’ll crave for a calorie fuck-my-body-with-lard fest at McD’s.
Meet my "Big Breakfast" — an assortment of
cardboard pieces deep fried in oil, lard, and anal
lubricant of all sorts.
Since I were having my facial at my aesthetician today, my sister and I decided to pop by at McDonald’s before hand. Yes — I do like McDonald’s even after years of bitching on how I don’t do McD’s. I mean, the last time I had McDonald’s was something around either earlier this year, or last year. I can’t remember. It’s not often though.
Curious what goes on behind the doors of my aesthetician’s + dermatologist’s office? Here’s me having my usual glycopeel cleaning/extraction facial sessions. I do these either on a weekly basis (if my skin is crap) or bi-weekly if god loves me. I just have to have to have to have to do these regularly so I won’t get a zit etc.
You know how bad a single zit can be for your
self-esteem. It’s pretty much social suicide.
So why risk it when prevention is better
Here’s the fun part after all the extraction work etc. I don’t know what they call it but this is supposed to help close down your pores. Take note how red my face is afterwards — my aesthetician removed white heads etc. It’s facial abuse at it’s finest. But hey, 6 hours of a red face is worth a week or two weeks of flawless, beautiful skin. Try it! Get an extraction facial today and see what happens. :)
Wanna take a peek at the usual day at the clinic? It’s full of MatronAirs at their full force.
All I can say, I don’t care about you all cause I’m a pretty little thing and I loves it.
P.S. I’m 1-month overdue to see my shrink. I was supposed to see him back on June 15… I think I’ll see him sometime this week. *fingers crossed*. I’ve run out of Xanax and god knows when my next anxiety attack wil strike. I’m scared!