Musings of a New-Moneyed Masochist
5:09AM, Saturday, August 27, 2005.
As I’m typing today’s entry, the country’s #1 newspaper/broadsheet is probably being dropped off at various newstands around this third world hell hole that I live in. That’s right. 7,107 islands… and them some.
After all this time who knew I’d end up in the papers. I’m quite honored to be asked to contribute to the Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Well, not me personally, but my verbal diarrhea.
Oh yes bitches.
I have to admit – my article was written (and sent… I’m sorry!) in the last minute. I literally wrote it the same day as my deadline was because I’ve been horribly busy the past few days.
I thought my article lacked structure… and substance.
But practice makes perfect.
I have NO writing skills whatsoever of any kind. Carrie Bradshaw my fucking asshole.
Whatever it is that you read from me comes from the cocaine-covered walls of my aorta, my mucus-covered lungs and drenched-in-motor-oil guts.
I showed the link to my mom yesterday and she couldn’t even believe I can write such thing.
In fact, she couldn’t even believe I know how to write — the only thing she knew that I knew is to do a John Hancock whenever I go shopping.
Nevertheless, my old, fat bitch of a moodrums is a proud, happy woman.
Wanna know what I wrote? Click the link below.
Musings of a New-Moneyed Masochist: Freeloaders Exposed
I asked my maid to buy 10 copies of the newspaper once the clock hits 6AM. I’ll scan and post a shot as soon as I get hold of a copy.
Bryanboy Blast Off!
A new friend (yet the warmest and one of the most good-hearted people I’ve met) of mine is throwing a little cocktail/booze party in my honor (gasp) tonight.
If you got the invite, please try to come. You know who you are. It’s always nice to hang out and spend time with people.
C.R.L - I am SO sorry for not making it last night despite me asking where your pad is. I tried my best to diassociate myself from laziness but with the rain pissing madly, I decided to stay indoors. I was out quite early yesterday because I had to pick up our passports and tickets from the travel agency — in Malate! My brain exploded from all the low-flying maya, pigeons and doves that I saw when I went to Robinson’s earlier. I have never seen such scenery before I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not Manila’s red light district is back in full swing again.
Excuses excuses excuses. Pfft.
I hope there will be a ‘next time’ and I hope my rain check didn’t bounce because of insufficient
On the subject of time, I still haven’t packed my Prada leather mini-trunk/large suitcase yet.
I promised myself all I’m gonna bring is my toiletry kit and empty Prada nylon bags but I couldn’t resist taking clothes and stuff out of my wardrobe.
My #1 rule whenever I travel is to exceed the free baggage allowance. Overpack, overpack, overpack and then shop.
By doing so, it gives me an excuse to buy more suitcases.
I’m honestly tired at the moment – been up all day yesterday but I won’t sleep until I see my article in print.
The later I sleep today, the later I get up.
Besides, I’m gonna do an all-nighter today. I have to check-in at the airport on Sunday dawn.
After the Bryanboy Blast Off! party, we might go to La Embajada (not sure) then to the airport.
Who knows, I’ll probably fly drunk.
Enough ramblings for now – I asked my maid to buy papers. I’ll post the scans when she comes back.
Saved by the Needle
I passed my Tuesday drama with flying colors. I went to my aesthetician as planned, had an emergency facial, Wednesday arrived and my monstrous zit went from a volcano down to an ant mound.
I mean, come on, how can a zit possibly survive this?
I know what you’re thinking – that tacky, cheap bracelet ain’t mine. Belongs to my aesthetician. Here i am, red-faced, just right after the treatments.
Heck, I accomplished a ton of stuff that night – had a glycopeel/cleaning/extraction facial, a powerpeel session and an IPL (Intense Pulse Light) session on my face. I even wanted to get a lipo dissolve session on my arms but my damn doctor refused me this time, telling me I just had a couple back in May.
What I do though is a chin implant. I hate being double chinned. But I’m scared of surgery – although the idea of going under general sedation is appealling. VERY appealling.
I’m happy with myself now though.
Surgery can wait until I turn 75 years old and wear Oscar de La Renta.
As soon as I got up earlier this afternoon, the first thing I did was call my gal pal Tina D. I told her how my doctor just got back from Hong Kong last week and she was rubbing the word "sale" to my face while she’s doing my IPL treatment.
Yeah – why didn’t we fuckin went to Hong Kong this month, when everything is on fuckin sale, plus the new fall/winter stuff are now on the shelves?
And then I had a realization.
We. Must. Go. Shopping.
Shopping. Shopping. Shopping. Shopping. Shopping.
And while we’re at it, we might as well go to fuckin Shanghai. or Beijing.
Even for a day.
Called our travel agent first thing earlier, booked flights, had to rush out and get a passport photo done for my visa application, gave it to the my travel agent and hopefully I’ll get my passport back this Friday.
When am I leaving for Hong Kong? Sunday.
When am I going to China? Monday.
Sunday this week, Monday next week.
It’s all too fast eh? But it’s all good.
Desperate housewives, desperate times, desperate measures.
So desperate that I paid my credit cards off in full today to give me prime time worthy, ball-busting, shopping space on my plastic.Gotta love online banking.
If you’re in Hong Kong or Shanghai and want to see me in my full glory, send me an email: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
Bryanboy loves people from Graz, Austria, Columbia, MD, Danbury, CT, Clarksville, TN and Cincinnati, OH.
#1 – Anyone fancy some cottaging action? Unfortunately, I’m not. This is how STDs spread fast. Someone I keep running into various toilets is into it. I even saw him earlier this evening, shaking that dick as he shivered right after peeing. Oh my eyes! Oh your head!
#2 -To my pretty, pretty, pretty, beautiful fucking beautiful guardian angel, thanks for the Mario Badescu referral. Will definitely buy it the next time I go out. BTW, is it true that girls lick chocolate off guys’ bodies at the Cosmo Bachelor Bash? Oh. My. God. Oh. My. Fucking. God. I went to this page and it looks like the promo is open ONLY TO FEMALES. Someone please fund my sex change savings account quick – I’ll take care of the wig and my clitoris-exposing vagina micro shorts.
#3 – I’ve switched from Marlboro Reds to Marlboro Lights to Dunhill Lights. Quite impressive eh?
#4 – To those damn folks at LuisaViaRoma. I ordered on Aug 3/4 and I still have not received my order. What the fuck is going on and have you lot even sent it? You already charged me and I paid it off already – if I don’t get it before the 30th, expect a fuckin dispute from my bank!
#5 – I’m telling you, these boots are fuckin calling my name. It’s now available in my size (40 or 41) at Eluxury.com for US$1,825 a pop.
They’d better have these boots in fuckin Dior in HK otherwise….
Enough ramblings for now. I have to catch up on beauty sleep. No wonder I’m getting zits. This bitch doesn’t know when to rest.
P.S. Send me love, or post comments, ok? Please validate my existence. Thank you!
Where the fuck is your god?
You tell me bitch, cause my god punished me for all the bad deeds I did in this planet.
Someone told me last night that my skin looked great. Yes – it was Queen Naz Noor to be exact, while waiting for my vodka red bull from the bar.
Fast forward a couple of hours…
I slept at 5AM, then I got up 6 fucking hours later with my WORST nightmare.
A fuckin cheesemax the size of 79AD Mount Vesuvius slapped in the middle of my face.
Right between my thick, Amazonian foliage-like eyebrows to be exact.
Yes, I haven’t had a facial in far too long — 2 weeks, I think? I can’t even remember.
But god. God oh god oh god oh god oh god.
This is just fuckin ludicrous.
This is what I get for saying I don’t have random cheesemax oi vey!
KARMA BIT MY SCROTUM AGAIN.
This is even worse than my St. Tropez disaster last year.
I really can’t afford to have a zit. I just can’t.
Alliance Française de Manille is having a little French Fashion Illustration event today and I’m gonna miss it because of satan’s spawn stuck on my face.
My life is ruined. I have so many things to do, so many opportunities, so many so many many-many-many. Yes, many many many many.
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why do I have to be fucking human?
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why can’t I get volcanic immunity? Do I fucking need a fucking diplomatic passport?
Why oh why oh why oh why oh why do I have to be punished this bad?
I called my aesthetician and booked an emergency extraction facial/glycopeel cleaning and a powerpeel/microdermabrasion session later this afternoon. It’s gonna be syringe day today. Inject that mother fucker with weapons of mass destruction. 5PM to be exact.
While they’re at it, I might as well ask them to fuckin bombard the damn thing with fuckin cyanide. Morphine. Heroin.
Heck, they better make it lethal.
Sodium Thiopental (Pentothal), Pancuronium Bromide (Pavulon) and Potassium Chloride.
They’d better remove this thing on my god damn face no later than 7PM tonight or else I’ll commit suicide.
Oh yes. Suifuckingcide.
I’ll cover my head and suffocate myself using cling wrap whilst being locked inside a vintage Vuitton trunk.
I’m not kidding you.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
Oh screw all of you. Yes. Each and everyone of you. I’m not in the best mood today.
Go kill yourselves or something. Go get an eating disorder. Go cottaging. Go get a sexually-transmitted disease. Go get food poisoning. ALL OF YOU!
Except the ones who recently sent me love. Bryanboy loves you and only you…
(Alright… I know I said NO photoshopped text/signs but I gotta make an exception)
I can’t think straight. I need those shots. Pronto!
I’ll update later. Promise.
P.S. Send me love dammit. You know who you are. And you know how to fucking contact me being the shameless self-promotion impressario that I am. email@example.com.
Ever since I started this blog, I made a personal promise that I’ll never post any entries while being under the influence of alcohol because god knows what I’ll end up writing.
Being the certified night owl that I am, no amount of tranquilizers can put me to rest – despite all the cocktails I had.
Yes – I’ve broken (again) my cardinal rule of not to go out during the weekdays. Today (or yesterday, rather) was an exception.
It’s Hannah Matronic‘s last night out in Manila.
She’s off to New York this coming Wednesday to study.
Although I’ve only known her for about 2 or so months, there’s this ‘connection’ between us. I love her no-nonsense, no bull, brutal, frank and honest opinions (gawd can I be any more patronizing?) – traits that’s very rare to get from people these days.
Kate T., a local designer, sang brilliantly for hours – a very talented individual indeed.
Saw quite a few familiar (and very friendly) faces and enjoyed hours of chat with folks. Tonight is definitely one of my best nights out. It was low-key but refreshing. This one will definitely go to my memory books.
Who knew Monday woud be such a blast? And who would have thought I’d be home by 1:52AM and still have great fun? I couldn’t help but wonder: Saturday nights are indeed overrated.
It’s just a shame that a newfound acquaintance is leaving. Nevertheless, I’m definitely gonna miss her. She’ll be back this December tho… ;)
God do I feel fuckin sentimental or what?
I think I’ll try to go to bed. Tomorrow’s gonna be yet another beautiful day. I’ll save the random cheesemax (honestly, there aren’t any!!! oi vey!!!) and shameless self-promotion later.
P.S. Send me more love bitches!
(Sorry, can’t resist.)
Well hello there.
First things first, I have to make an exception and start my post with unconditional love and thanks to this man who temporarily etched his undying love for me on his face.
From the cocaine-covered walls of my aorta, muchos muchos love to you, too, even though "BRYANBOY" looks like BEIJINGBOY or BIJANBOY.
I’ll be honest. I did something I don’t normally do after a Saturday night out. Today was one of those extremely rare days: I got home no later than 7AM. In fact, I arrived at 6:41AM to be exact. And it doesn’t help getting up at 1 in the afternoon with one of my worst hangovers ever. Blurry vision, chalk-y tongue, headache and stiff neck galore.
My usual weekend haunt, La Embajada was jampacked last night. It was so crowded that you literally need to use your levitation skills in order to get from one place to another.
Even the VIP area was soo crowded. I usually have a place ‘semi-reserved’ for me (in other words, the waiters/bouncers tell people, unless their powers are more superior than mine, to get their lazy asses up because the queen bee is coming) and anyone related to me up to the 2nd degree but all it takes is one trip to the toilets and ya gotta wave buh bye to your spot. When you come back, you’ll just find yourself standing up, staring at your drinks behind the army of the unknowns who shamelessly took your seat.
Some skinny, short-haired vagina accidentally spilled wine on my Gucci jeans and Gucci belt. May god bless her soul and may she rest in peace wherever she is now.
"It’s only white wine, it won’t stain" my fucking asshole.
To add to the insult, little miss chinky slit vagina told me to go to the toilets to stuff tissue up my jeans so they dry up faster.
Hell, it’s just like telling me to wear a spacesuit and go to the Saharan dessert by myself.
Thank god Hannah Matronic was there. She kept my sanity intact.
Is it your first time at Embajada? Don’t you know that it takes 10 long years to go inside the toilets?
Sorry bitch, I just had to vent it out. I won’t hold it against you. Case dismissed. Peace and Merry Christmas. :)
I’m about to say something I’ll never, ever, ever, ever, ever say to anyone, whether in public or private because there’s still that "if you think local celebs are cute, you’re ghetto" factor. But fuck it though, this is my blog and I can say anything I want.
Raymond Fucking Guitterez, You’re hot!.
OK, maybe I shouldn’t say that. The thought of dealing with your mom is probably enough to turn anyone off. Since most of my readers are people of the non-Filipino kind, his mom is the female, highly-opinionated version of Jessica and Ashlee Simpson’s dad.
(oh btw – if this woman doesn’t like you, she can effortlessly throw hardcore verbal diarrhea to your face jerry springer style, on national television)
It’s interesting how much stuff I know about showbiz these days eh? Hah!
God I hate showbiz.
Ugly People of the World… Speak Up NOW!
Or forever hold your
Most fugly people, like me (see – I do normal things normal people do, too), read something while taking a poo in the toilet. Whether it’s your daily newspaper, your favourite fashion magazine or the book that you bought 6 months ago but you only read about 2-3 pages a day, it’s always nice to have your mind wandering somewhere while you drop the kids into the swimming pool.
I thought I’d share in yet another piece from my favourite "only read it while you’re taking a poo" book, The Hookup Handbook: A Single Girl’s Guide to Living It Up by Andrea Lavinthal and Jessica Rozler.
One thing that brightened up my day is how they have this piece about "himbos" – that’s right bitches – the male version of a bimbo. It made me think – after a rather accurate description of "himbos", gawd I must have been so stupid in the past because I’ve been with one of those abominable creatures.
Read this piece and tell me, would you want to hook up with a himbo?
I say pass the pepper and salt bitch cause there’s no way I’m eating my steak bland.
When you look at it at a different perspective, the best material things in life always come from someone who isn’t blessed in the looks department.
Passionate sex (here’s a doggie bag bitch, go vomit whatever you last ate), lots of gifts (a girl like me can never have too much of Chanel), free drugs (bring in the snow cause you’re my litte snowman), free booze (cry me a cristal baby, cristahhhhhhhhl), nice cars (there must be something nice about you to compensate for your errrm..) and the million-dollar mansions (daddy, can i visit your zoo?).
Is there a gold digger hidden inside you? To compensate the lack of personal pictures lately, let’s play a little pictionary game shall we…
Take a look at these random faces for instance and tell me whether or not you recognize these people:
Seriously – would you do the despicable deed if they offered you a couple of million, cold, hard, and bundled inside a Goyard trunk?
With the help of MSN Messenger and a couple of American gay friends online, I asked them to give me links to pictures of "who they think what a himbo is". Now take a look at these people.
Quite interesting eh?
Now who would you choose – the former or the latter? Weigh the advantages and disadvantages between the two.
My verdict: you can’t expect and you won’t receive much from a himbo. A himbo is no different than a hoover vacuum in the middle of a hoot-hoot-hooter’s bar.
In the spirit of golddiggerdom and despite my applied rule of ageistics and physics (older than 20, younger than 35), if you were to ask me, I’d take the IKEA Founder anytime. It doesn’t take a consultation with my astrologist or a knock on cheap Swedish wood babe to know that man will probably die of cardiac arrest if i told him in person "daddy i wanna i kee ya".
Good luck if you chose Aaron Spelling bitches cause that man will never, ever, ever die. That man will live on and on and on and on and survive all sorts of world war 1, 2, 3, even star wars. For all we know, we can be on our deathbeds wearing Oscar de la Renta and Aaron will still be alive and well.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
People from Akron, OH, Montpellier, France, Hembrug, Netherlands and people with white collar 9-5 jobs in Austin, Texas. Bryanboy loves you all!
It’s never too late to send your undying love to me. Send photos of yourself holding an "I Love/<3 Bryanboy" sign to firstname.lastname@example.org. Remember – NO photoshopped pictures please.
#1 – Yes, you’re fucking hot, too. It’s nice to rub up against you last night, even if it was only for a few seconds.
#2 – Yes, I am a masochist. Thanks for asking. I let people use me all the time. It’s like being inside a gas chamber with mirrored walls. All you can do is lie down, have convulsions and slowly stare at yourself dying.
#3 – Has anyone noticed that Eluxury/Louis Vuitton is trying their best to drain my bank account? The mother fuckers at LVMH are coming up with more and more gorgeous stuff.
#4 – Chanel recently held a show in Shanghai. Public transportation has never been this chic.
#5 – Victor Basa, is this the bracelet you talked about last night?
#6 – Last, but not the least, thank you so much to 2 individuals who recently gave me some of the best and genuine advice I have ever heard (and have not even heard from the people I expect to hear it from) in ages.
I love you all!
And yes, I will definitely play it up!
Queen of Tactful Tack
Good afternoon bitches. Buy the Philippine Star – quick! There’s a lovely article written with me on it. Although the powers that be censored the thing (of course, it’s one of the country’s top 2 daily newspapers – I doubt they’ll publish anything in true blue profanity-infected-and-infested Bryanboy style), I have to say I love it. The people at Star are good — everyone go hail them. Click the graphic below for the full-sized version.
Despite not getting a full page printed shrine dedicated to my glorious self, I got HALF of a page, which isn’t bad at all. At least it ain’t a 1 column inch printed at the "Prostitutes for Rent" or something whatever classifieds section. I’m very very happy. Gotta love the illustration, too.
I wished they published my true secret for success.
"No such thing as super powers babe. I ain’t Nuclear Wintour as of yet. My key to success is excess and bulimia. Feed your soul, your heart and your mouth with as many things as you can digest – extremities, food, booze, fashion, travel, partying, people, everything. As soon as you get home, all you need to do is to do is to sit down in front of a Lalique bowl, stick two or three fingers up your throat and then purge it all out.
*No offense intended, of course, for those who have eating disorders. Bulimia is the only word I can think of to describe what I want to say."
At least they printed my "desperate to BECOME a housewife" plea.
That’s supposed to be:
"I need a gorgeous, eye-candy type, sober, stable, independent male (or female) flatmate so I can move out of my hellhole parent’s birdcage soon. Please be fabulous. Please be fun. And please be fantastic. No under the sheets obligation required. I just want it to be completely platonic… ok… I want it kind of like a mini version of the Big Brother House. I don’t want to be spend my weekday evenings alone on my own inside my future pad. Send me a message or call me. Lines are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week: +63-915-785-1492 or email email@example.com.
Otherwise, I’ll just patiently wait for the movie offers, the book deals, the magazine contributing editorships, the TV commercials, the drama series, the handbag lines, the fragrance launches, the flopped nightclub and restaurant offers as I blog my way to fabdom."
Thanks, Naz (Queen Noor) for the great write up. Don’t y’all love it? I do! Now back to our usual programming…
I finally dragged my lazy, long-haired ass to the salon yesterday and got a haircut. I’ve been procrastinating for far too long on my ebony locks. Yes I need another lipodissolve session again. My arms are fucking enormous now. Don’t you dare make fun of my batwings.
I then went to People’s Palace for a quick snack and to meet Gian to return his CDs. Thursday nights are his nights – he spins at the Manila DJ Club for his weekly Fluxxe party.
Apres People’s Palance, I went to Tina’s house because Gian has to spin for his party.
There was a "Youthopia" party thrown by Pond’s (yes, Pond’s as in Pond’s – you know, the stuff that you use on your face/body/whatever that you can get from the supermarket) but Tina and I decided not to go there… we sorta wanted a quiet/relaxed night out. We went to Cuisine (at Embassy) to meet a couple of friends for drinks and chit chat.
We then went to Manila DJ Club (it’s my first time). Finally… after not going to Gian’s Fluxxe party (it’s been running for a couple of weeks now), I finally showed up. It was fun. It was scary at first because the first thing that greets you right in the parking area (they have valet) is ROCK and I mean hardcore ROCK music – there’s a couple of rooms, I think and then an outside patio/balcony area. Everything was fine after going upstairs to Gian’s room. The music’s alright – it’s definitely a different crowd compared to our usual haunts – it’s refreshing to an extent – it’s all good.
We cut our night short – it’s a weekday afterall. You know how rare… extremely rare… for me to go out during the weekdays.
Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax
#1 – Bryanboy loves people from the state of Kansas (shit they have internet there?), Sacramento & Beverly Hills, CA and folks from (again) Melbourne, Australia.
#2 – I’ve finally flushed you down the toilet bowl along with my used tampon. I should have done that 10 years ago, right when I started getting my monthly period.
#3 – A desperate person can never have too much love. Send me more love – again – no photoshopped pictures please. Get a fuckin piece of paper and tell me you love me. Take a picture of it and email firstname.lastname@example.org. That’s how FUCKING easy it is.
Validate my fucking existence.
Everyone has a god damn camera this these days. Digital cameras, webcams, even most phones now have cameras. I’ve created a photo album where I’ll post all the love… and manna from heaven. Just give me and my assistant some time to compile and crop them to a reasonable size etc.
As always, feel free to contact me. You have my digits, you have my email address.
P.S. I love you all!
You Got the Love
Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air. I know I can count on you. Sometimes I feel like saying "lord I just don’t care", but you’ve got the love I need to see me through.
It’s 7:50AM and I’m off to bed after this post. I’m gonna clean up and crop my blog to a reasonable length as soon as I’ve risen from my rivotril-induced
coffin beauty sleep. The entire page is just far too long and I think it’s high time for me to just create some sort of a "Classic Bryanboy" drop-down thing with some of my Academy Award-winning posts.
Here’s my final abuse to those of you on dialup and homoerectus-era internet connections: I am proud to present you the boys who have a special place in my heart.
Yeah yeah. Whatever.
Fall in line bitches. One at a time. If you want to go technical I can only manage three at a time. Ok, maybe four because I have 2 hands.
Especially Alex. Oh yes, Alex. I love you too.
D as in D, there’s still that "Erin O’Connor" thing ever since I first saw you.
Time after time I say oh lord what’s the use, time after time I say this just won’t do. But sooner or later in life the things you love you’ll lose… just like before I know I call on you.
Send me pictures of love, love and even more love. Bombard my email account: email@example.com. Genuine, true and unconditional love only please – NO photoshop.
Goodnight! Good morning.
August Horoscope Fun
I don’t usually believe all this astrological, metaphysical and "psychic" hoolabaloo. I mean, would you really entrust your future on the advice of some bandana-wearing, big, old, fat bitch with an overturned fishbowl as her "crystal ball"?
Just imagine how many people out there who share the same zodiac sign (Aries) as I do.
Back when I was much, much younger (like 11 or 12), I used to call those US$3.99/minute "psychic hotlines" on a regular basis until my parents saw our phone bill and gave me a good slap in the face. I was so gullible back then. In reality however, those tele-"psychics" are probably bored housewives who ain’t got anything to do with their lives so they just spit off whatever they can think of to each and every caller they get.
How did I know they were fakes?
You see, I could easily pass off as a woman over the phone and those damn psychic-wannabes have always thought I’m a girl whenever I call them. I used to ask them silly questions like "when am I gonna get pregnant" or "when am I gonna have a boyfriend".
Did they knew I’m not really a girl but someone with 2 eggs and a hotdog?
I doubt it.
Here’s what Harper’s Bazaar said, who gave a couple of pages to Gisele Bundchen (just let the damn bitch die) this month:
(this is where I spent more than 30 minutes looking for other August ’05 magazines only to realize I left them in the car that my sister used to go to work today)
I’ll do a Part Deux later when she gets back.
Bryanboy Le Mannequin?
Apparently this French guy (well, click the graphic on the right) asked me whether or not I’m a ‘mannequin’. Oi vey!
That Citegay French Personals website is fun! I always get a ton of real-time messages whenever I go online there. The quality of the guys aren’t that bad either… at least compared to Fridae where most of the guys who message me are viagra-induced, wrinkly, old, hairy, obese crippled pensioners on their deathbed.
Take a look at some of the messages that I got (and the people who sent them) from that site. Click each thumbnail to see the full version. Some of them are cute, some of them aren’t my type – too butch, too straight acting, too hairy, too rough-looking, too old, too smelly, too masculine, too this and that.
Now, now, Tina Daniac – when are we going to enroll at Alliance Française for serious French lessons?
Speaking of boys, guess who wanted to add me to his Myspace account earlier…
Meet Brandon. He’s not too bad for a faggot is he? He’s hot in some pics, he’s alright in others. But he seems to be nice. So go boys (sorry girls) — hit on him before he vanishes.
One for the Girls
Enough of my gay guy hopping madness. This one is for any Rice Queen straight girls out there.
I browsed a copy of People Asia magazine and came across this guy. God knows whether he’s into boys or girls but I’ll stay on the safe side and assume he’s straight. He’s quite a looker, non? His name is Victor Consuji.(what is it with Filipinos and the name Victor?)
More regurgitation later.
I need to have dinner. One tablespoon of raisins, a bottle of evian, a packet of Marlboro Lights, some xanax and some fingers-up-the-throat purge action in the toilet.
As always, email me – firstname.lastname@example.org.