Allow me to indulge for a little bit as I rekindle bittersweet memories from my past.
I haven’t done a Bryanboy Life Archives post in a long time so here goes. Enjoy as I give some light to the skeletons in my walk-in wardrobe.
If you’re a parent, the worst thing that could ever happen to you is to give birth to an attention-seeking, greedy little child with short attention span.
Ever since I came out from my mom’s orifice, I have always been an attention-seeking whore… a subject of ridicule.
I went to a hardcore catholic private school and I’m telling you – it ain’t fun.
I’ll give you a kiss on the cheek and an oreo cookie if you can spot me in this picture. Click it for the full-size.
You see, schools in the Philippines shouldn’t fuckin force Catholicism and religion to kids. I remember having Protestant and Born Again Christian classmates… even they have to study Catholicism – but then again, they’re in a Catholic School. Bleurgh. Enough religious bullshit.
Anyway, I’ve put an enormous amount of effort just to make friends with anyone in my class.
I really have.
However, instead of gaining acceptance from my former classmates, everyone looked down at me as if I’m scum.
I don’t blame them.
I did all sorts of things to gain attention. I nicked stationery, stickers and pens for fun. I did a little extortion stint asking a couple of bucks from each student who wants to use the bathroom. Heck, I even faked one of my faggot ex-teacher’s signature on my own project because I submitted it late. Little had I known that he doesn’t use a pen with PINK ink.
Trust me, each and every year I was in school I was sent to the "guidance counselor"… and year after year, my parents have gone to the principal’s office to straighten things out.
Over the years, I’ve put both of my parents to an unbelievable amount of shame.
I was even sent to a shrink… at 12… yep. It was THAT tragic.
Alas, I don’t think they had Ritalin back in the dark ages.
These days, I’d do anything just to see my current shrink… if only I had the time. All it takes is for me to complain that I couldn’t sleep at night because of a handbag that I want and the next thing you know, he hands out three sheets of paper that allows me to get me candy from the pharmacist. It’s amazing!
Imitation My Ass
Knock knock cliche. I don’t think imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I think it’s recognition and respect.
You’ve read my mind. Yes, there’s someone out there copying me.
It’s nothing new though. He’s the same person I busted before for copying me and stealing my posts.
Instead of plagiarizing my posts word per word, he’s stolen ideas and certain items except he’s done his own twist on it.
God I despise knock-offs.
And the damage doesn’t stop there. Here’s one that made me tick off.
(no, that’s not me btw.)
and then he used my name in vain…
It’s flattering to an extent because according to him, my blog is one of his favourites. Although I find it interesting on how he didn’t link my blog on his blog when all his other favourites are there – I think he’s scared for his readers to find out he’s copying me.
Here I am, doing my own thing, enjoying myself and having fun at the same time, trying to achieve acceptance from others as I search what my true purpose in life is.
I have always thought of myself as an outcast – I don’t belong anywhere. I have always thought nobody wants me for being me hence I’m on a constant, lifelong search for people who will appreciate me as it is.
Yet as you do your own thing in this planet, you trigger other people to BE you…. to copy you.
Has the world really gone bad? Why oh why oh why oh why?
I guess I shoud be flattered because there are people who want to be me.
Am I selfish for not wanting to see myself in others?
I know most people want to see themselves on other people because they want to be able to relate to one another.
I’m royally pissed. I think I’m breeding negativity here.
I’ll shut the fuck up – I think I’m better off with a gag order.
I’m going to light some L’Artisan candles, relax and indulge on vanilla ice cream.
I need to be surrounded by positive energy… so I’ll be positive.
P.S. I’m really not a bitch. I promise! It’s just that I am so pissed. Just give me time, please, I need time.
I need time to be able to control what I’m saying so I won’t hurt other people.
I need time to choose whatever comes out of my mouth so it won’t look negatively on me when I say something.
I need time to care the consequences of whatever I say.
I need time to… oh fuck it. I don’t need time to learn how to bullshit.
Because even a fuckin 5 year old can spot a knock-off.
And no, that ain’t bullshit.
P.P.S.S. Big shout out to all employees of McCann Erickson Philippines, particularly Peter. Byanboy loves y’all. God knows what Peter thought of me. Ignore whatever you’ve heard from him – they’re all false. Hah hah. *kiddin* I love you all.
Lovin Louis Vuitton
Yesterday was productive.
Fuck the 2 hour drive from my house to the Lous Vuitton store. Rain or… rain, I was determined to go northbound. Had I left the house early in the morning (ike 2AM), it should take no more than 22 minutes and 18 seconds.
Believe it or not, I went out of the store empty-handed.
My ski bonnet (I’m totally excited about my snowboarding lessons… I’ve never done it before) and my nutria fur gloves arrived at the store but I can’t purchase them till tomorrow.
Ok, not quite the empty handed bitch cause I did get my Moon Festival Louis Vuitton invite.
I think I made the right decision to pick Russia versus France.
I need to call Chanel in Paris or New York to see whether or not they still have snowboards that they can send me by FedEx. I know they made snowboards at one point. Heck, I know Dior made Rasta snowboards last year.
Klux Klux Kelly
My oh my. I took Kelly out for the first time yesterday and boy it was a blast.
I think I had more fun than Kelly though. She was rather anti-social yesterday because I removed her Hermes ribbon neckpiece before we left home.
But the bitch ends up being gangbanged anyway.
You know what they say sweethearts
It’s the good girls that get pregnant first.
I’m at a loss on what to say – let’s play pictionary instead.
God my arms have never been so enormous. It’s at the stage where it’s getting absolutely ridiculous. As soon as it hits October on the calendar, I’m scheduling myself weekly lipodissolve sessions. I need my Paris Hilton arms back!!!! No more excessive flesh.
Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against curves, flab, etc. on other people.
It’s just that I want my Paris Hilton arms BACK!!!!!
Not that I’ve ever had them in the first place.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Christchurch, New Zealand, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Wilmington, Delaware and Amsterdam, Holland. Bryanboy loves y’all!
#2 – I also love Larae from Texas who browsed my site for several hours. S/he sent me a text at 6AM her time and it seems she can’t get enough. Hello there sweetheart! :)
#3 – Calling the attention of the MAC Cosmetics in the Philippines. When are you going to have MAC Clear Lip Glass? It’s out of stock at every MAC counter in this city… and it’s been 4 months since I first inquired. You lot still don’t have it until this day. My god, do I need to fly somewhere else just to get 5 tubes of cheapo but primo lip gloss?
#4 – It’s a known fact that there will always be a sad crying bitch whenever it comes to threesomes. Unless, of course, you take one up the ass while you give the other a blowjob. But yesterday’s threesome fiesta made half of the golden "discreet indiscretion" couple standing there, doing nothing. Maybe she was a voyeur? Who knows.
#5 – Little Miss Fancy Pants likes boys. I know it’s sad, considering the lesbian population in this country is dwindling. Despite all the rumors that she’s a lesbian… and despite the fact that she toys around with cracks and crevices in public, she has a straight lover of a man worthy of the International Male Catalog Award 2005. Oops, that didn’t come from me, I just heard it from the grapevine.
$6 – Belated Happy Birthday to Mickey L. Sorry for not making it to the party at Absinth!!!
You know where to contact me as always: firstname.lastname@example.org or +63-915-785-1492.
Au Revoir Paris, Privet MOCKBA!
I believe that everything happens for a reason. Call me crazy if you want but I also believe in "signs".
If something is meant for me, then it really is meant for me.
The universe will drop subtle hints and give me signs so I’ll make the right decision.
Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing wherever I’m standing right now… with no regrets whatsoever about my life.
How insightful eh?
On that note, look at what I got in the mail on my weekly FedEx shipment from my office.
Isn’t it a sign?
A sign for me to go to where people "sing ra-ra-rasputin, lover of bryan the queen" and wear my new Hermes parka?
There are no more 1-bedroom suites left at Hotel Costes, Hotel Bel-Ami and Hotel Ritz at the time when I want to go to Paris so why even bother. There’s no more availability even at cheap but chic Hotel Pershing Hall, a hotel recommended by one of my acquaintances in Londres.
Isn’t that a sign too?
It’s gonna be Fashion week at the world’s fashion capital for god’s sake, not to mention the lack of time for me to get a Schengen Visa. 3 weeks left… oi!
If Monsieur Jacques Chirac or HE Ambassador Gérard CHESNEL personally invites my third world ass to spend my money in Paris, closed the Catacombs and provide a bed in the middle of all those bones so I can sleep at night (I’ll even pay for the bed!), then perhaps I’ll change my mind and reconsider.
But for now, it’s going to be au revoir Louis Vuitton event and Zdrastvuite MOCKBA for me.
I will have to make that dreaded phone call to LV’s brand manager later today, apologize and decline her invitation.
My god, this is going to be worse than breaking up with a guy.
I’m kinda heart-broken and I’m sure it will pass.
Afterall, the mental picture of my cute Russian friends teaching me how to snowboard is already giving me an orgasm.
I think I’m gonna bid goodbye to the LV invite in person. I’m gonna drag my Yves Saint Laurent boots (in my little walk of shame) to Vuitton later today anyway because she told me to pick up my invites for the Moon Cake Festival/Event (?). I might even comfort myself by going shopping (if there’s something new) and tip toe my way into the retail therapy waters.
I reserved a maroon/plum-coloured velvet scarf and I’ll purchase it today along with whatever fancies my eye.
Ooooooooooo I hate myself.
Bryanboy Loves and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Piscataway, NJ, Long Beach, CA, Haag, Germany, Oberlin, OH, Las Vegas, NV, Eklanda, Sweden, Mountainville, NY and Tacoma, WA. Big hugs and kisses from the fabulous third world y’all. Identify yourselves bitches by posting a comment on my blog.
#2 – It’s been a while since I posted proper (and decent) photos of myself. I’ll make sure my paparazzo takes a ton of pics later today when I go out. My best friend Kelly is back from hibernation and my Birkin bag needs major mileage.
#3 – Big hello to all my fans in Saudi Arabia. Thanks for the text messages. I love you all!
#4 – Identify yourself mystery caller! I received a call from an unidentified dialing object but hanged up before I answered.
#5 – Yeah, as if this is new. Hello, this blonde bitch has been feasting on mussels and flaps since god knows when.
As always, send your messages of love and hate to email@example.com. Text messages (and calls – if the weather permits) are also accepted at +63-915-785-1492.
I love you all!
P.S. Sing with me… 1, 2, 3. Ra Ra Rasputin Lover of Bryan the Kween… there was a Vuitton invite that really was gone. Ra Ra Rasputin, Bryan’s the third world love machine, it was shame how he carried on.
I don’t know. I really don’t know what to think anymore.
Did you know that I had an anxiety attack about 3 hours ago?
I had some chest and left shoulder blade pain plus a feeling of "stuffiness" in my throat and my nose. I felt like I was being choked slowly. It went on and off for like an hour.
BTW, I stopped taking Seroxat cold turkey about three weeks ago because I simply can’t be bothered. It’s hard enough to remember that you gotta take one pill a day. I’ve also ran out of Rivotril… and Xanax, as always.
I’ve got no meds left because I haven’t gone to the shrink in AGES!!!!! Gotta ask for another prescription.
Fuck, I even haven’t had a facial in the longest time.
What the fuck is wrong with me these days?
Anyway, I thought I was gonna die earlier. I went to my mom’s room telling her I’m not feeling well and she shrugged me off, instructing me to lie down and relax. She also told me that it’s my fault anyway because I’ve been smoking far too many cigarettes.
The only thing that is comforting me now is the idea of going to either Paris or Russia this winter and then spend New Year’s Eve in Boracay.
I’m the biggest procrastinator ever. If ever I’m going to Paris, I’ll leave earlier than October 10th, probably like October 5… and then stay for a week.
And it’s already September 13.
If I’m not mistaken, the French Embassy needs at least 3 weeks to process a visa.
I don’t think I’m gonna make it by then.
But I do want to go to the friggin LV Store Opening thing!
20 21 22 23 years old and I can’t go to the mall."
Sounds familiar? My BFFsaid that whilst washing the dishes at The Simpe Life 1.
In the event that I don’t make it to Paris, feel free to keep these pictures as souvenirs.
It’s the thought that counts.
Oh dear. I had serious palpitations earlier.
(image courtesy of LouisVuitton.com, LVMH)
Louis Vuitton will close Paris Fashion Week with a party to publicise its biggest store yet, opening on the Champs-Elysées on 10 October for a select clientele. A hundred "VICs" (very important clients) suspected of spending up to $200,000 a year on the luxury brand have been invited to mingle with celebrities for a preview of the store and the chance to buy limited-edition items. Sharon Stone, Serena Williams and Uma Thurman are expected to attend the event, which will comprise dinner and a visit to Vuitton’s museum in Asniéres. The opening coincides with the launch of Louis Vuitton’s online store. (26 August, 2005)
I won’t divulge anything as of yet… but… is it France or Russia this winter?
a) France: rush to the French Embassy PRONTO to apply for a tourist visa (funny how I talked about the damn visa thing yesterday), go to the travel agent, book business class airline tickets to Paris for only a 1-week stay, try to get a decent hotel suite (because of the fact that it’s fashion week, rooms at the top hotels are scarce), deprive myself of shopping, dining, going out, etc for an ENTIRE MONTH otherwise it would be no serious shopping (other than food, booze and presents) for me in Paris…
- MIGHT be able to go to LV’s hottest ticket this year (take note of the MIGHTY word MIGHT)
- COULD BE a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, at least for now.
- Uma Thurman. OH. MY. GOD.
- 1-week stay only. my parents are gonna flip out cause it’s only last month that I left.
- can’t go all out on shopping (I shouldn’t have gone to HK!!!!!!!) cause last month’s bills haven’t even arrived yet!
- what’s a trip to Paris without spending big buckeroos at Louis Vuitton. Loulou de la Falaise. Colette. Hermes. Dior. Chanel?
- it would be very sad to come home empty-handed (like that would ever happen, knowing me, but still…)
- winter outfits gone to waste because of warm, tank top + cashmere cardigan, October weather
b) Russia: let this once in a lifetime opportunity pass, sulk for several months but revel in caviar, blinis, vodka, gorgeous Russian eye candy during hardcore winter wonderland because I know the fall/winter outfits that I bought on my recent shopping expedition (including my precious Fendi and Hermes down jacket) won’t go to waste… but I have to wait until Nov 17 to make that happen.
- no rush, no stress
- my hotel is FREE for 12 days in Moscow because I’ve racked up over 140,000 points on my Starwood Preferred Guest account. 10,000 points = 1 free night at the Moscow Sheraton.
- caviar, blinis, vodka
- pure winter wonderland escapade
- I’ll get to see my Russian friends whom I haven’t seen since last year
- I’ll get to use my Dior snow boots, Fendi, my furs, my Hermes down jacket
- my Russian friends can finally teach me snowboarding (I’m REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS)
- I’ll get to visit North Russia where nuclear submarines are at
- very litte shopping (not set in stone cause I’ll be on a 1-day stopover in HK for last minute necessity buying) which leaves me more opportunities for next year, i.e. NYC on either Jan/Feb or Mar.
- MIGHT miss LV’s hottest ticket this year
- COULD ONLY BE a once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, at least for now.
- Uma Thurman. OH. MY. GOD.
As I’ve said, I’m not divulging any more details unless I get my act together.
And before you start bombarding me with messages of temptation of doing BOTH, no, it can’t be both this year.
Some of us have other important things to do, such as stay within the allocated "number of days Bryan is gone away from home" quota.
God I hate decision-making.
My head is spinning. I think I need a tranquilizer of some sort, like, pronto.
I just remembered that I need to lick my parents’ ass so I can move out NEXT MONTH. Enough with procrastinating.
That’s right. I need to work on my plan on how I’m gonna get my familia de horreur AKA parentals to say:
"Yes, Bryan, we won’t have any hard feelings if you move out of the infamous birdcage. Spread your wings dear son and fly. Fly! Fly! Fly to your new pad."
With the Paris option, how
am I are they going to cope?
My parentals will go straight to Asian hospital for cardiac arrest if I told them I want to move out in about 2-3 weeks AND go to Paris afterwards.
I’ll update you guys in a couple of hours. I’m 12 hours overdue for an article I’m writing. I need to finish it first before I start doing my cheesemax.
Be sure to visit later.
By the meantime, email me bitches! firstname.lastname@example.org.
I thought I’d do one last whinge before I get some serious skin-tightening beauty sleep on my Pratesi-covered mattresses.
Ever since I started this blog, I’ve received far too many emails from you, my dear readers, on how I should come visit you for some serious R & R: reckless recreation.
We all know that geography is no boundary when it comes to my fans. Who knew there’s internet access in friggin Zimbabwe? Who knew I have fans who live in Ecuador? Even folks from Winnipeg, Alberta and Littleton, Colorado, they’re all feeding themselves with verbal diarrhea coming from my little third world rectum.
As much as I’d want to visit each and every one of you, one should realize that 99% of all the countries (and that includes friggin Iraq and Afghanistan) in the world show their disgust every time they see this snot-colored piece of document that we, citizens of the brown, the l’exotique and the natives, are born with.
That’s right bitches.
Immigration officials, visa officers, diplomats and consular services representatives wordwide frown upon anyone who holds the above-pictured passport because of all the bad deeds our ancestors did, dating back when the passport got invented.
You probably won’t believe the number of citizens of this third world hell hole cesspit would do anything just to get out of the country PERMANENTLY and ILLEGALY.
And it’s fucking true.
All the stereotypes you’ve heard from your neighbour are correct.
For instance, did you know that ALL Filipinos have some sort of a relative… or a distant relative, living in the United States of the Democrats, the Republicans and the Damned?
People from my land, the land of clear blue skies, coconut trees, weather la tropicale and boring malls would do anything just to get out of the country? It doesn’t matter whether they marry a sex-starved pensioner from Europe or smuggle themselves in cheap nylon suitcases one body part at a time: a lot of people will find a way just to get out… and most of them did.
What’s even worse are illegal immigrants who are a drain to a foreign government’s resources: benefits and welfare scroungers.
So here I am, a model citizen, suffering the consequences of my fellow shitizens.
Each and every god damn country in this planet now requires a friggin visa before allowing us to breathe oxygen in their country.
Some visas are easy to get, particularly the ones where no one from my country usually go to: India, China, Mongolia, etc, while most embassies now require us to give our entire lives documented in paper: bank statements, credit card statements, income tax returns, proof of assets, house & car titles, letters from our employers or proof of our businesses and everything else that you can think of.
And yes, they even want your first born child… or your bed sheet thread count if you’re impotent.
Now I don’t mind giving out such paperwork if I wanna go to a full blown shopping and reckless recreation expedition but doing so each and every time I want to go somewhere (or getting one visa after another one expires) is a fuckin hassle.
The documents are one thing but what’s worse is the drama dealing with the embassies.
Waking up at some ungodly hour just to submit your application at the embassy is one thing.
Queueing for hours is another thing.
And having incessant chit chat with someone who wants to pry on your personal life is another…although I have to give everyone credit for not asking me my guilty pleasures, the number of people I’ve slept with and the number of times I got my hair coloured in the past.
When one of my gal pals went to a European city last year for around 2 weeks, the local embassy took around 3 weeks to a month just to process her visa application… and the embassy had her passport the whole time!
Most of these embassies employ hardcore snob-to-the-max Filipino administrative assistants who would give you the cold shoulder as if you’re a mere pleb when in reality they should be the ones hailing you because of the economic benefit they’ll get from you when you spend your dosh at their local shoppingeries.
I guess one should never forget that there are still citizens such as myself who loves living in the land of the brown, the l’exotique and the natives.
Why would I want to live somewhere else when I’m living like a fucking queen here?
I have drivers (alright, crappy, dumb drivers), I have maids.
I have Vuitton suitcases and Chanel shades.
I never fly economy
Because I hate the sound of ‘mommy’
I don’t want your fucking jobs
Coz my dry cleaning bills are worth more than your handbag!
There goes my singer/songwriting skills. Now you know why I’ll never make it to the R&B section of your local music store.
It’s true though… I’ll never, ever, ever give up whatever I have here just to live anywhere else.
Going on holidays and vacations are fine, but knock-knock-cliche-snap-snap-reality, there’s no such place like home.
So yeah, if you want me to visit your country, go ahead and write to your government and ask them to friggin waive the visa requirement for model citizens such as myself.
Otherwise screw you cause I’ll only go where the wind blows.
My Pratesi and rivotril are waiting are for me. Good night/morning/afternoon everyone! email@example.com or +63-915-785-1492 if you need me.
Here’s a little act of kindness (and of course, publicity) for those who give it to me.
As some of you know, I ocassionally check sites that refer to my site from time to time. I like to keep track of what’s going on around the world, where my site is being talked about, etc.
You see, I’m a certified A-grade hoarder. I hoard clothes, bags, accessories and such.
Heck, I even hoard love, attention and hate mail.
Anyhoo, there’s another entertaining thread on some Filipino forum somewhere. Trust me, there’s quite a few hilarious posts there.
One thing in particular is this ‘Foxistar’ person who is certainly sure that I want to be a girl but even a sex change can’t change the truth… no amount of money will make me a girl.
It looks like this fucker knows me more than I know myself.
(BTW, I’m not sure whether or not posters can re-edit their posts once they’ve posted on the boards but I wouldn’t be surprised if s/he took it off. Anyway, at least I know… and have seen better)
A sex change?
Me being a girl?
Why on earth would I want mussels on my crotch when I love being a boy, I love my cock, I like jacking off and being jacked off?
I’m not THAT deranged to turn myself into a vagina.
Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck.
In any case, isn’t it just adorable?
What’s even more amazing is when this wart-faced douche bag emailed me earlier today.
Then I replied… and he replied…
If I was a handbag designer, there’s no way I’d email "ugly, gay, almost famous" people who WANTS TO GET A SEX CHANGE out of the blue and bribe them with handbag endorsements in exchange for free publicity.
The right way to do it bitch is to at least kiss my ass, worship the third world soil I’m standing on and tell me I’m fucking gorgeous, fabulous, sexy and all things patronizing that you can think of. Once I’ve promoted you, then you can start the backstabbing and the filth.
Not the other way around.
Alas, you did quite the opposite.
I hope my efforts in giving you publicity pay off.
I just fucking love it. People will go to great lengths just to use you… kiss your ass, say bad shit about you, etc.
When the only thing I want to do is to have fuckin fun.
Nevertheless, I’m glad there are people out there – and these are the people who really MATTER – friends and genuine people – who know better. People who will never judge me based on what they see initially, but based on their own personal experiences of/with ME.
You know who you guys are and I truly appreciate each and every one of you.
I know I OWE absolutely no one any explanation – as you guys have told me over and over again – but it’s things like this that I can’t bear. Don’t worry, I’ll most definitely fine-tune myself and learn to adapt based on my experiences.
Back to the handbag bitch… who’s the bigger loser now?
Because I’ve let myself used and gave what s/he wanted.
But frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck.
Look mate, your handbag concept is nice, in fact, a handful of your bags are quite cool, but your attitude fuckin stinks. Whether or not you get something out of this post you at least owe me a couple of handbags.
May you rot in handbag hell.
*runs off to get a Fendi Spy bag in white mink*
La La Lacoste
As Fashion Week in New York goes into full swing, photos are flooding in, particuary the ones from Lacoste.
I knew s/he’s gonna reply in a heartbeat. S/he’s on
THEN WHO THE HELL WERE YOU TARGETTING?
As always, y’all know my email address. firstname.lastname@example.org.
You *have* to see this. Look who fell off her seat at the US Open.