Bryanboy Mall Rat Extraordinaire

As part of my "research" for an upcoming article/piece, I spent the entire day hopping from one mall to another on the lookout for "good finds" (aka cheap thrills), chic post-shopping eateries and such. I went to a grand total of 4 "malls" today: Podium, Shangri-la Plaza, Greenbelt 4 and Glorietta plus 1 department store, good old Shoemart.

Podium was dead; I texted all of my friends and told them it felt like I was in a mausoleum. A mausoleum filled with stiff-looking, shirt-and-tied ninetofivers who looked down on me because I look like a punk kid gone camo.

Oh yes. You should’ve seen the looks on the faces of these 30-something, office clerk workers when I entered Starbucks.

Just because I look like a ghetto trash army rag doll (cum rag is more appropriate because my black t-shirt’s got gold paint splatters) it doesn’t mean you can go high all hoity toitty on me.

My entire body is covered with invisible "You’re-Staring-At-Me-And-Giving-Me-Crappy-Looks" sensors. I get internal titillations every time someone’s eyeball roll to my direction.

Heck, even my Birkin bag, which I used today, is covered with such detectors.

That’s right. I ditched my Chanel 2.55 in the car and brought the holy grail of handbags with me when I went to Podium.

Punk kid my ass when my Birkin bag is DEFINITELY more than their third world annual income.

Editorial Note: One of the joys of owning a *genuine* Birkin bag is the bragging rights that come along with it.

Fucking Yuppies. God I despise them. Prtentious yuppies in white, blue, gray or pink button down shirts with trousers and loafers that scream OFFICE WORKER!

Darlings, just because you’re in a bloody office uniform it doesn’t give you the right to feel you’re loaded, so cut the snobbery, bitch!

Don’t get me wrong though. I really have nothing against office workers. Or clerks. Or minimum wagers. Afterall, their taxes fuel most politicians’ fat wallets therefore giving us more golddigger opportunities.

But it’s cunts like me who keep the GLOBAL economies afloat. Paris, New York, Milan, plus all the sweatshops all over the world that print the "Made in Italy" label.

Think about it.

Office workers = Local Economy
CLMs (Cunts Like Me) =  Global Economy

Anyway. Enough teenage angst.

Let’s continue with the pomp and the high-voltage tales of tension pretension that you guys love.

Don’t blame me darlings, I’m smoking Cartier Lights. I’m obliged to be pretentious as my lungs get filled with Cartier tar! HK Duty Free I <3 You!

Now if only Graff or Verdura made cigarettes…

Shangri-la housed the only place (Homme et Femme) in this third world cesspit that I call home where one could find Balenciaga, Dior Homme, Costume National and Marni amongst others.

Editorial Note: will you please create another shop (or move) to friggin Makati this way I don’t have to do the 2-hour driving trek from the suburbs to your shop?

I like that shop. I really do.

Me likey likey so much that my original intention was only to look at their latest batch of Dior Homme but the sizes they have are size 3 or OBESE sizes (ruins the sole purpose of Dior Homme when they carry Dior Homme for fat people. GET THE ONES FOR RAIL ANOREXIC THIN BOYS PLEASE).

I ended up adding yet another Balenciaga bag (olive) to my collection, its matching coin purse keychain and a Balenciaga assymetrical sweater/top.

For truthful journalism’s sake, I have to tell you that the color is a little tad darker in real life.

I also went to Escada – that’s right bitches – the first time (ever as in ever) I’ve set foot in the store where I thought only Eurotrash grandmothers shop (despite the perennial quirky feminine youthful female orgy ad campaigns) but boy oh boy I found it fun and normal.

So "fun and normal" to the point where I added myself on the waiting list for the Escada/Siemens Denim and Diamonds cellphone (about US$900). Isn’t it j’adorable? It’s better than my random Nokia fuck-up child that can’t even take photos using the back camera because of a "memory" problem.

Greenbelt 4 was nothing new – same old same old. It was rather disappointing actually. It feels as if its halls are your house and the shops are your rooms. There was just nothing there that caught my eye. I even went to BVLGARI and tried a couple of watches – I found a really nice yellow gold piece but I didn’t like the strap.

Then I went to Vuitton (oh salvation) but the only good thing there is a dark plum-coloured velvet scarf with fringes.

Forget Glorietta. Most of the shops were closed because it was late.

One shop that DID caught my eye and made my Chanel black caviar 2.55 felt cheap was this:

Fake Burberry… Fake Chanel… Fake Everything!

Why on god’s name is this sort of thing allowed at a fucking mall considering we have GENUINE Burberry shops?

Whatever happened to copyright laws, intellectual property, anti-counterfeit laws etc?

Bah. Whoever owns that shop must have some god damn NERVE (and BALLS) to sell counterfeit goods.

Oh well.

Who the hell owns Glo-fucking-rietta?

Does anyone in the Philippines know?

If you do, will you please print this post and send it to the powers of be?

Stop playing in the dark with your glo-sticks and give a stern warning to whoever owns/operates that shop.

My Chanel 2.55 needed a fucking Xanax when we passed by the shop earlier. Had my genuine handbag had the mouth to talk and the voice to sue, it would’ve won millions of dollars in damages – hassle, emotional distress and visual battery.

I’ll update you in a bit.

I’m thirsty and in need of something to drink.

You know where to contact me. bryanboy@gmail.com or +63-915-785-1492.

Baboosh!

Dirty Old Stalker

This man has been stalking me for the past few months now. His disgusting trash of an english ass won’t stop sending me messages. I think he wants to impregnate me and be his personal houseboy. As if I’d touch dirty dishes. Heck, I even ask my fucking maid to fuckin clear the ashes on my Hermès ashtray let alone wipe some elderly man’s poop chute before bedtime.

Go hunt some other sucky sucky 5 dolla fool you fucking twat cause this gook ain’t gonna touch your filthy AIDS stick.

My god, is he a fucking freak or what?

Someone should call the Scotland Yard on him for preying on young, innocent children such as myself.

Aren’t there any laws to protect the young and the restless?

His sheer existence on this planet is pretty much a crime to humanity… child abuse at its finest.

Even if I was a frigging whore I’d be selective of who I’d get fucked (and get paid by) because there’s no way I’m giving 15-minute gratification to a minimum waging pensioner in this life.

The gold digger in me will only procreate to people who belong to the Fortune 100 Bachelors list.

At least that’s what I learned in the "This Is How We Do Things Our Way" handbook of life.

Handbag Insider

I know, I know…

To further prove my bragging, self-validation-desperate, attention whoredom persona, I thought I’d do one of those "what’s inside your handbag" posts. The last time I did it was back in November of last year. I think I’m gonna do it more frequently from now on.

What do you expect? It’s fucking 2:44AM, I can’t sleep, and I’m in desperate need of a shower (hence the handbag spill at the back of my Chanel towel) – I’m too lazy to find a plain white backdrop for my goodies at this time of the night.

Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax

#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Norwood, MA, Chula Vista, CA, Pensacola, FL and early birds from Singapore who surf the net at fucking 2:50AM.

#2 – Bryanboy loves email such as:

Of course Gucci won’t make me happy. What the fuck are you talking about?

I look forward to the day when someone gives me a fucking US$64,000 40cm Hermes black crocodile Birkin bag with pave diamonds. That will definitely fill one big void in my life.

The eternal emptiness that is inside me can go to fucking hell if I can get my hands on that bag.

Mind the gap bitches cause that bag will make me happy happy long time.

#3 – Everyone in the fucking Philippines is gone/leaving! Hannah went to NYC to study, two people I know are in Australia probably parading their bottoms at Palazzo Versace (lucky bitches), one is leaving for Paris this week, a couple are going to Hong Kong in 2 weeks.

And here I am stuck in the fucking third world!

At least there’s something to look forward to this week:  a private dinner party & a Russian-themed birthday party both on Wednesday night… and then the Cosmo bash on Thursday. 

Enough rambling for now. I need to go to bed cause I have to be up by 9AM.

I love you all.

Baboosh!

Fleece, Flesh, Fluxxe

First things first – what was I thinking when i wore my Marc by Marc Jacobs fleece top when I went out Saturday night? I should’ve known better that rainy days in this third world prostitution den of a city that I live in does not translate justification to wear fleece, even if it’s Marc by Marc Jacobs. I didn’t put the effort to dress up because I’m still suffering post-travelling traumatic stress.

Ianne, Tina and moi went to M Cafe for long overdue drinks (and dinner. sort of. I had 12 baked oysters, foie gras, and prawn + green mango salad). Apres M, we went to Fluxxe at Manila DJ Club. That’s right… Gian and the Thursday Fluxxe crew threw a "one big fluxxe" party last Saturday, a change from their usual Thursday sked.

I have to cut back on binge eating. For the past 2-3 months I’ve been supersizing myself. The effects are now showing up on my body… all that excess flesh are now gathering dust on my arms and my stomach. It’s hideous. Utterly hideous. I think it’s time to get a couple of rounds of lipoddisolve shots to, once more, attempt to achieve Paris Hilton’s arms. I think I’ll wait till late October, before I go to Moscow on November.

I guess I have to make do with what I have – for now.

I need to learn how to love my body.

That’s right. I need to love my body.

Love my body.

Love my body.

Love my body.

Love my body.

Buy someone to love my body.

Love my body.

Love my body.

Bryanboy Loves… and Random Cheesemax

#1 – Bryanboy loves people from Alexandria, VA, Cologne, Germany, East Alton, IL and Pandora, OH.

#2 – The angels must have been listening to me. I have gotten hold of this week’s hottest ticket, thanks to one of my friends. Eat your hearts and vaginas out bitches because my lucky cunt got a VIP Ticket to Cosmo Magazine’s Annual Bachelor Bash. If you only knew how hard it was for HIM to get one of these tickets… imagine going in competition with a ton of cock-hungry and man meat-deprived Filipino women and she-males. Thank you, thank you, thank you Mr. Benefactor you. *big hugs*

It’s gonna be one party with a ton of fit Filipino lads wearing nothing but teeny pieces of cloth. Most of these are probably Asians with 4 or 5-inch cocks. The sad thing is, a 9 or 10-inch dick is pretty much unheard of especially here in chinky chinky gooky gooky land. Who the hell cares though – it’s not often you pack a ton of fit guys inside one room.

The only thing I need at this point is an outfit. If any of you are going to the bash, hope to see you on Thursday night. And don’t forget to say hi!

#3 – I finally found the time to post upload all my Hongky Tongk photos online. Click here to view the photo album.

Back to Business

It’s back to business for me. As much as I want to think I’m still travelling, this bitch has got to do a reality check and start living his normal life.

On that note, let me do a public service announcement for those of you who are planning to fly via Philippine Airlines in the future. I hope whoever owns Philippine Airlines read this and/or any Philippine Airlines staffers/workers and such.

You see, the reason why I fly business class even on 1 hour and 40 minute flights is to separate myself from farm animals – cattle, sheep, goats, chickens – whenever I fly. I would rather pay premium money to ensure a comfortable flying experience: comfy seats, tons of space, pillows, blankets, etc than say be surrounded by unnecessary noise. It’s very rare for a screaming child to exist on business class rather than where mere mortals go to.

But the flight from Manila to Hongkong was one of the worst flights I’ve ever been in my entire life.

I like Philippine Airlines. Don’t get me wrong. The service is good. The staff is friendly. Everything is just great.

Yet there is this one man who wrecked that experience. Make that two because it takes 2 to tango.

Take a look at the elephant on this photo.

The man with the pregnant tummy had a mouth as big as his gut.

All throughout the flight, his voice can be heard from where we sat (seat 1K) right through the back of the plane.

He did NOT spare anyone in the flight some silence.

In his conversation with the other guy, he uttered all sorts of profanity in both the English and Filipino dictionaries.

What’s worse is the fact that this elephant is probably an airline/airport employee who only got upgraded… or worse, a free flyer… hitchhiker of the skies.

Every once in a while I’ll sit up straight to see the looks of everyone else’s faces near our seats and you can tell everyone wanted to try to sleep but they can’t because of this man.

I’m sure Judy Ann Santos, who is some big local actress in my country, who, btw, sat behind us, probably also had her ears wrecked by these elephants.

My friend and I tried to drop "subtle" hints, such as asking the stewardess whether they have EAR PLUGS or not – they don’t… not on short flights.

It was pure torture I’m telling you.

These 2 men sat at seat 1C and 1A, Sunday August 28, 2005, flight PR300, 8:00AM.

If you know anyone who works at Philippine Airlines, please print this post and ensure the elephant won’t fly again. Get him fired, get him roasted. Put him in a cage or better yet, send him to a fucking circus.

I just don’t want to see him ever again.

Baboosh!

Excess, Excess, Excess

I’m at a loss of what to say right now so I’ll let the following pictures show you the kind of fun I had in Hong Kong. I’ll post all the photos we took in a photo album later tonight. I haven’t even unpacked my suitcases! Oi!

Cry Me a Mississippi River

Oh thank god. It’s nice to be back, in my room, with nothing but black boxers, a cigarette on my left hand… and  smug look on my face.

That’s right — I’m back in the good ol comforts of my parents’ pig pen, humongous blue Globetrotter suitcase full of materialistic and orgasmic pleasure, shopping guilt and priceless memories.

I even came to the point where I called the airline to extend my stay in Hong Kong till Saturday because Tina, my gal pal, wanted to go back home today.

But reality sinked in and my heart (which means my wallet, my parents, my life…*kidding*) is nagging that I should just go back.

So off I went to the airport with her, went straight to the business class counter and used my charm to get away with the excess baggage –  I had 45 kilos with me — oh yes — for free.

All I can say is that I wish I didn’t come home yesterday and extended my stay.

I miss Hong Kong… and shopping.

Rocky Rocked Our Rock-hard Hearts

I take back about everything I have said about male models.

Ok — maybe not.

On Sunday afternoon, post designer shopping madness, Tina and moi were doing a quick run down of the shops (hah) at Ocean Terminal in Hong Kong. We were kinda having a fight near the doors because I wanted to eat and/or go out for a cigarette but she wanted to go back to the hotel and take a shower.

Then comes this tall, bald looking (ok. not bald, but very short hair) guy walking up the stairs.

"Tina, look at that bald cutie. Oh my god!"

Tina D suddenly went to a frenzy and said "I know that guy! and he’s Filipino"

Then she went up to him and they apparently know each other. With my gal pal being well, motor mouth Miss Congeniality Tina D, she introduced him to me and me to him and invited Rocky to hang with us. Rocky wasn’t doing anything that day and was just roaming around.

With him being 6’2, he became our mascot-slash-bodyguard. Oh yes.

He tagged along with us, shopping and dining around Hong Kong. I’m telling you, his face/body is plastered in quite a few bilboards around that city, not to mention Singapore and Bangkok. He really is such a nice guy.

In fact, despite me being surrounded by people who work in fashion and not working in the fashion industry (contrary to what people think), he is one of the most down-to-earth, humble, hardworking people I have ever met.

He distances himself from other male models especially on shows cause all they talk is gym and boring/pretentious stuff… and he doesn’t like it when everyone speaks English — in the Philippines.

He even deprives himself of things, saves all of his money from campaigns, shows, etc, even to the point of just living on the US$15 a day personal budget (although if he WANTED to spend spend spend, he can do it easily) – just so he can give everything he earned to his family. Come to think of it, he recently bought a 600-square meter land in the province for his mom. Can any Filipino male model do that? I don’t think so.

On our last day in Hong Kong, Rocky and moi spent over 7 hours straight, non-stop, talking about everything under the sun – from 4AM until 11AM, without any sleep whatsoever. Even Tina couldn’t resist chiming in when she got up.

I’m not gonna go into detail on what we talked about but trust me, it made me feel guilty about shopping that day.

I saw something in Rocky I haven’t ever seen in my life – an older brother. I wish him all the best (because he deserves it all) and I hope to see him again.

Meet My New Best Friend, Kelly

Kelly and Me on Nathan Road

Tina, Rocky and I found Kelly, the Rubber Chicken, on the streets of Granville Road. I love her! Everyone in Hong Kong loves her! I used my Birkin bag everyday and put Kelly inside it and trust me – I got more attention from people because of Kelly, instead of my Birkin.

Kelly and Me Inside the Dior Store in Lee Gardens where I Bought My Dior Bag

Kelly and a Jean Paul Gaultier Store Sales Associate

It’s nice to make (and see) people smile because of a rubber chicken. Chinese people, particularly the ones in Hong Kong, are generally cold and don’t have a sense of humor. However, with Kelly’s head and neck popping out of my Birkin bag and flops as I walk the streets as if it’s one huge runway during fashion week, people smile, point, and even ask me whether or not they can touch the chicken. 

Even police officers, immigration people and customs people LOVES Kelly. The smile, laughter and happiness that Kelly gives to people is priceless.

And of course, Kelly never flies economy on international flights or flights longer than 1 hour. It’s always business class or first for her.

More updates in a bit, including my EXCESS, EXCESS, EXCESS photos.

I love you all!

Baboosh!

Eat Your Heart Out.

Boy oh boy the folks at Inquirer are generous. That’s why I love them. (ha ha – am I a freeloader too?)

And there I was — stuck for about an hour and a half inside the car yesterday en route to my travel agent, thinking/asking myself

"I wonder how much do those billboards on the freeway cost."

But this one is better.

Seriously.

You should’ve seen the billboards that we have on the freeway – they’re HUGE.

I think it would be absolutely fabulous if I have my face plastered on a billboard, followed by my website address and my cellphone number, followed by "Please fund my shopping sprees."

On that profound note, I’m signing off.

I’m gonna sleep, have beautiful dreams and wake up impossibly-fresh looking.

I gotta go to my aesthetician later for a last minute session, followed by a pedicure.

Also, thought you’d want to know, I won’t bring my 17-inch sony vaio laptop with me. I’m on a full-scale retail and conspicuous consumption shopping expedition and a computer is nothing but nuisance.

I’ll be back either Wednesday night or Thursday — depends on when my travel buddy wants to go home.

By the meantime, validate my existence you mere mortals. Bombard my email account with messages (and pictures) of you holding a DIY "I Love/<3 Bryanboy" sign. bryanboy@gmail.com or +63-915-785-1492. Text messages are accepted. No phone calls please. I *NEVER* answer phone calls from numbers I don’t know.

I love you all!!

Stay fabulous.

Stay… Bryanboy!

Baboosh!

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 funds time.

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.

Baboosh!

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.

Ugh.

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.

Breaking News

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: bryanboy@gmail.com. 

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….

Screw it.

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.

Baboosh!

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.

At all.

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.

Oh yes.

No kidding.

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.

Baboosh!

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. bryanboy@gmail.com.