Whether it’s a plant, an animal, a gorilla or a baboon, every breathing, living thing in this planet experience some form of change one way or another.
Some change for the better, some change for the worse.
In my case however, you’ll know I evolved for the better when I went from point A to point B effortlessly, with point A being dior lip gloss, a packet of charlie, some reductil diet pills and a pack of marlboro reds
and point B being dior’s new Dior Kiss lip gloss set, centrum multivitamins, arcoxia (etoricoxib) muscle relaxant/pain reliver for my back, lagaflex (carisoprodol paracetamol) pain reliever, and myonal (eperisone hydrochloride) muscle relaxant for neck pains.
At this point you’re probably thinking I stole my grandmother’s pill set to get a cheap high but no, after 2 weeks of procrastination, I finally got my ass to one of the top-notch hospitals (Asian Hospital) yesterday to consult with an orthopedic surgeon about my lower back pains and a neurologist for my neck pains.
I’ve had these pains for the past few months now after years of being in front of the damn computer all the time. I might have developed this weird twitch thing on my back.
Both consultations were kind of fun. However, it’s not as fun as the in-pronto head-to-toe-inspection by the Spanish unfashionable police I had. My orthopedic doctor was in his late 40′s (probably 50′s) and he was very comforting. I got the usual sermon on how I should stop or at least cut back smoking, take vitamins and calcium and do at least 30 minutes to an hour of exercise a day. I also had an on-the-spot inspection: he made me lie down and do all sorts of positions while he’s hitting certain parts of my body with this small, hammer-like tool. Bah!
The neurologist was quite ok, too. He’s around his 30′s, quite fit/muscular — you can tell it by the way the white coat fits on him. He’s not THAT good-looking but there’s something sexual about him.
He’s got this certain look in his eyes — he’s got
very big, round, dark eyes. God these dirty
He was very friendly and I think his eyes made me shut up/quiet for some reason. You just couldn’t help looking at him straight in the eye when he talks. He told me I need to get an MRI session on my neck/cervical spine and I’m doing that on Thursday.
God, what is happening to me? All these health issues aren’t funny. I really should get into a much healthier lifestyle.
In case you’ve wondered, my weekend was quite alright. We went out on Sunday night and had dinner at my favourite Korean restaurant, also had a haircut at Franck Provost. Sister and I did a little bit of shopping, bought a couple of tops. Also went to the Dior cosmetics counter and purchased a new set of lip gloss.
I saw this FUCKING AMAZING turqoise-like blue eye crayon thing at Dior and the damn thing was sold out. Who the hell would think blue eyeliner pencil would be popular in a fucking third world country. It’s always like that — whatever you think is nice is always sold out. Luckily it’s available in Sephora.com — I ordered 2 of those. I have to admit, I’m not really into makeup because it’s gay overkill (as if I’m not gay overkill already, ok, fine, I *do* use lip gloss and maybe, just maybe, some foundation if I’m having a bad case of greasy skin) but it’s only until recent I started being curious about it. The blue crayon is sooo fantastic — just put a line across your lower eyelid on your lower eyelashes and it looks hot and tres edgy!
By the way, I have a new crush. Sort of. God I love that word. "Crush". It’s soo teeny bopper but fuck it, crushes are nice to have. I like that mushy gushy feeling inside. It’s that thing of the past that I will never, ever, outgrow.
I went to my local patisserie (Bizu) to buy a box of their ultra yummy,
macaroons and there was this new guy working there.
Anyway, he does look like he’s FFTCDMWJ (fresh from the college doing minimum wage jobs) but he’s quite a looker. He’s a bit my height, looks very fit, and has a cute face. The only thing I didn’t like was his teeth. When I smiled at him when he gave me my order, his teeth was weird looking. I think he had a fang or something plus they’re just "right". It was freaky.
Honestly though, I wouldn’t mind having him if he kept his mouth closed. I’ve been single and been on the hunt forever simply because of the fact that cute, quality guys are so rare in this town.
Ha-fucking-ha. It could be that I temporarily had hallucinations and flashbacks when I first saw him hence the teeth trauma. In any case, my sister and I are going to go back tomorrow lunch to have a repeat performance/second look before we get our facials done.
Oh and he has a name. Mark, I think. I overheard one of the patisserie ladies calling him.
kiss kiss for now!
Let’s face it. There are only 2 types of places in this planet where a 400-pound man such as myself can turn into a beautiful, skinny, willowy swan. Either at your local liposuction clinic or the gym.
(ok, make that 3 places, cause you can snort cocaine in clubs and then dance the night away to burn calories. let’s forget drug abuse though. drugs are so… what’s a nice word… dark ages ago)
I once went to the gym for about 8 months, starting from January 2003. The one nearest my house was Fitness First – it was literally a 3 minute drive. Could be less, depending on how pomped up my driver was at the time.
I was one of the early birds. You’ll never see me at the gym after 11AM. For several months, I religiously went there from 6:00AM until 10:00AM. I abused all the cardio stuff I could possibly do — 30 minutes on the treadmill, a couple of minutes on the ellipticals, glides, blah blah, and a few minutes doing resistance.
I *never* did the weights because of personal insecurities and issues against the hordes of muscle maries lifting 50-pound weights. Why, why oh why oh why oh why should I, who, at that time, was 5-foot-9 weighing 100 pounds, subject myself to lifting weights, surrounded by steroid-injecting, drug-abusing, metabolism-obsessed, sweaty, bulging, muscular shitholes?
Deep down inside I have this nagging feeling that I’m gonna be the subject of ridicule and laughter for trying to lift a 5-pound dumb (yes) bell. So yes, I avoided the weights altogether.
I did go there one time and yes, a muscle mary bitch was even friendly to me and taught me how to do it right.
But no. I just don’t wanna go there.
In any case, I have to admit I enjoyed going to the gym. I had a little crush thing there who was quite alright. Every bloody day he was there, spent most of the time doing eye contact. It took us around 5 god damn months just to actually say hi to each other and in the end, I didn’t quite like him because he is a student. Icky eh?
Everything was fun up until the day where this
vicious, old-aged, vintage, fat, wrinkly just-
waiting grandmother-type chit chatted to my mom
on the elliptical.
The VO-AVFWJG had the fucking nerve to ask my mother "who is that faggot talking on his mobile phone on the treadmill? He’s been there for 30 minutes now and doesn’t he know mobile calls are expensive?"
To my mom’s amusement, she said "I don’t know".
Later that day, my mom told me about it and I asked her point blank why the hell she didn’t say anything about me being the result of her first fuck 18 (+4) years ago. She said she didn’t want to ruin the VO-AVFWJG’s moment.
Since then, I’ve never set foot to the gym because of embarassment. I enjoyed talking to my friends while I’m on the damn treadmill. Every day, I speed dial my friends and gossip. It was the only time for me to catch up with my friends from all corners of the planet. Early morning here, early evening in the US/late evening in Europe. Multi-task silvous plait. Burn calories and gossip at the same time — while being sober.
Fast forward 2 years later…
Earlier this morning when I got up, I noticed my love handles are getting bigger. Not that it’s new or anything. But this time, they’re really inflated. Somehow overnight, I got pregnant, gave birth and now I’ve got post-pregnancy fat.
One of my clients said he bought an elliptical trainer last week and he’s been enjoying it. Like myself, he works at home and going to the gym can be a pain sometimes. He does run every now and then — you know, run like running on the streets, something I could never, ever, ever be caught dead doing in public. He also said something about working out, blah blah bullshit.
I got inspired and thought, well, since I don’t want to go the gym, why not have my own mini-gym.
My mom mentioned she wants to buy a treadmill so we can all run while watching TV/doing rounds of phone gossip but she backed out because my dad said we’d eventually get sick of it… and they already go to the gym anyway.
Whatever. They need to sort out their issues. I’ve got my own.
I came across this website called FitnessQuest.com and ordered 2 things — the Total Gym 1700 Club and the Ab Lounge Ultimate.
I know they’re just basic home devices whatever and nothing as sophisticated as real gym equipment but I’m worried about space etc. I got them at a bargain too, roughly around $540 for both. I’m having it sent to my office in the US who will then FedEx it to me. I’d say about 3 weeks and I’ve got my own mini gym. Till then, all I can do is sit here and get myself as pregnant as possible.
Personally I have doubts with these "get-nice-abs-at-home" equipment but I thought I’d give it a try. I’ve never really met (or heard of) anyone who have used home equipment and gotten good results. Everyone got theirs at the gym.
God, I don’t even want a 6-pack. That’s just too… disgusting. So so outré. I want a flat, painfully small waist and long, skinny arms to match. Heck, all I want is a body of a skinny, pre-pubescent 11 year old boy. I want to be a pedophile magnet — at 22. Chicken at its finest. Looks can sometimes kill and if I had a body such as the one I just mentioned, all these dirty pedophile scumbags will die. Nya nyi nya nyi nya nya you can look but ya can’t have what you see you dirty old fart.
Enough fitness talk. I need a burger. A big, fat, juicy one.
A lot of stuff happened over the weekend, I don’t even know where to begin. All I know is that I’m feeling crap. I’ve never felt this crap in 2 or 3 years. I got up today at 12 noon with the worst body aches ever. Both my legs were sore to the point where it’s hard to walk, my neck and my shoulders hurt like mad and I had the worst headache ever, not to mention liquified poo and dizziness.
BTW, I don’t mind diarrhea. I actually love it. Well, not in a fetish kind of way but in a good way. I heard diarrhea makes you dehydrated and it also makes you lose weight. You know what I mean. Purge, purge, purge. With all the food intake I had over the past few months, diarrhea is one heck of a blessing in disguise. I’d take diarrhea and extreme body dehydration over anything else.
I don’t think I’ve got the flu… it’s definitely something else though. I hope it’s just a bad case of the hangover and nothing too serious. I had to cancel my appointment earlier this morning with my dermatologists cause I felt sick to the bone.
Well, my sister finally graduated college/university. As planned, my familia de horreur went to the Westin hotel on late Saturday afternoon. We had dinner at this Chinese restaurant in Manila called "Emerald Garden". According to my dad the food was "authentic chinese" and it was good. The restaurant was jampacked — we had to wait 30 minutes to get a table. I’m not really a big fan of Chinese food. or waiting. Chinese food is soo… I don’t know. What’s a good word — domesticated? I really don’t know. I just don’t like chinese food, period.
After having dinner, I went back to the hotel to dress up. I was determined to go out. It was Saturday night afterall. If I’m gonna be in the city, I might as well ring up my friends and go out. Even if I haven’t slept for 48 hours, I had to go out.
My friend Ivan picked me up from the hotel at around 12AM and we went to this new club called "Embassy". God there were lots of people there that night. It was a good club. Not as good as the ones in London or New York but for Manila heck it was good. Besides, it’s nice to see that people put effort again. It was so crowded that night. And try going to a crowded club while being sober. You can’t dance. You can’t flirt. You can’t mince around.
The only thing I didn’t like is the fact that we had to pay to get in. I *never* pay to go to clubs. I mean, I’ll pay for drinks but entrance fees and such? Never. I’ll let this one pass though because it was new and we had to make connections etc. We’ll see how it progresses. Ha! What’s funny though is how when me and my friends left the club, my sister and her friends went to Embassy AND they didn’t pay. Gawd.
After a few drinks, Ivan and I went to the VIP area inside Embassy. Nice flooring, I thought. Saw a couple of my friends there, chit chatted for a bit, said hello to a couple of people then we left. Went to another club in Makati to pick up my mini-me prodigy, who, I have to admit, was lookin not bad that night — he read my blog afterall (hello John!) and then went straight to Malate to this club called "Bed" where I danced the night away.
I unleashed a little bit of the inner bitch that night. I can’t help it. I had to at least do something bitchy even if it’s only for 5 seconds. My mini-me prodigy (John) was talking to this old bald white man. I swear to god he was like ancient. I told him "don’t talk to these dirty old white trash people" — right in front of the old pensioner and grabbed John to go downstairs.
This potato queen obsession is something that I want to erase off the face of the planet. These rancid vintage sex tourists won’t stop coming to the country if they know people are going to entertain them. No wonder why chinks like me are having a bad name. Just because we’re chinks it doesn’t mean we’re gonna succumb to these old pensioner’s pension checks.
Anyway, I got back at the hotel at around 5:30. My sister and her friends got back at around 8AM. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping — I got up at around 12:30. Had lunch on my own, got some soup and a huge burger.
We checked out of the hotel at 3PM. I thought we’d stop by at the Manila Film Center. We saw these giant paper mache Egyptian thingie majigies and then there were like 2 sniper guys in position. It’s strange to see a S.W.A.T. Team with guns and all. It looks as if they’re off to kill someone. We had no idea why they were there. They were nice though cause when we parked in front of the Film Center, my sis’ friend forgot to close the car door. One of the S.W.A.T police guys came up to us and said we should lock our car doors. We asked why considering there’s only 2 cars parked (our car and their car) and nobody else was there other than us and the S.W.A.T team and they said it’s for our safety.
We snapped some photos and off we went home. I got up late in the afternoon today with a couple of fresh donuts, coffee and diarrhea from the Chinese food, too.
It’s 3:13 in the morning and i just got up. I hate early nights — I slept at around 10PM yesterday cause I was just dead tired (and tipsy).
I went out yesterday to meet Harvey, an acquaintance from London who is here on holiday. 4 years ago, I gatecrashed his house party in Tooting Broadway (yep. so so far.) along with a bunch of people I met online. He was here about 5 months ago and decided to come back cause he made friends blah blah.
We talk about lots of stuff. For 4 hours.
I met him at Starbucks at around 3PM. I had a latte and bought some mints.
And since I haven’t been to the big city in like 2 weeks (Makati), and the shops were literally about a 30 second walk, I decided to take a look.
I haven’t done proper browsing in a long time.
We went to Prada cause I’ve been looking for this white and turqoise silk/cashmere top but it was gone.
Then we went to Yves Saint Laurent, I bought a canvas Kahala Yachting tote in white canvas and gold leather.
Then we went to Vuitton, I bought a multicolore bracelet. I have this addiction thing with Vuitton bracelets.
Here’s a pic of my loot:
Then we took a look at Gucci. There was this nice big bag I wanted but didn’t have enough motivation to pick it up cause I’m with someone. I generally like to shop alone.
After the shops, we went to this cafe to have more drinks. I had 2 gin tonics, about 4 or 5 vodka red bulls and a perrier. Then we started talking about stuff again.
Apparently he likes this shithole of a place, Manila.
He made quite a bit of friends from all walks of life, which is nice, and he’s been to a ton of places locally even I wouldn’t be caught dead going to.
Oh yes. We’re talking about the slums, my dear. The dreaded word that nobody here really likes to talk about.
I mean, I don’t really like talking about it. Sure, it does exist. And yes, I am aware of it, not to mention I did feel guilty about all my blessings etc. But hell, in no way I have a fault whatever.
After several hours, I didn’t want to get too drunk and I was dead tired at 7PM so I called my driver to pick me up and to go home.
The slums conversation didn’t end in the big city.
When I got home, my mom was watching a documentary about the unstoppable population boom in the Philippines.
Yes, people in the slums who earn no more than US$50 per month but have not 5, not 6, not 7, heck, not even 10, but 17, 19, 21, 23 **and** 25 kids.
There was this old lady who had a child every bloody year for the past 25 years. She lives in this matchbox-sized shanty house, the same with all her kids **AND** her kid’s kids — she has 9 grandchildren already.
These people had no idea what they’ve gotten into. Well, I think they do, but they chose to lead a blind eye. Despite living in extreme poverty, they continously add more and more to the global population burden by irresponsible breeding.
And it’s mostly the catholic church’s fault. The catholic church has a huge influence here and they prohibit their followers from using artificial contraception (i.e. pills, condoms, vasectomies, etc).
Both my mom and I were COMPLETELY appalled
with what we saw. I’m gonna reiterate what she
said before — these people are nothing but poultry.
They spend their lives while laying a ton of eggs
In fact, there was even this small area about 30 miles from where I live and it was named "Addition Hills" because of the fact it was an instant population factory. 100,000 people, 60% are under the age of 15 and it keeps on adding more and more and more kids every year. Even the kids have fucking kids. Some of them only eat once a day because they simply cannot afford to feed 18 mouths. It was absolutely awful.
Sometimes I don’t even know what to feel.
Should I feel sorry for them? Or should I feel
despise and wish genocide to do them a HUGE
These days, I’m leaning towards the genocide bit because it’s just sad. Really sad. There’s far too many rodents and vermin in the world already yet they continously and irresponsibly add more cockroaches in this planet.
Bah. I can’t believe I’m stressing out over this. I have my extraction facial in about 13 hours and I have to be fresh looking or else I’ll get another sermon from my aesthetician.
I just looooove going thru some of my old stuff. I was bored out of my mind while cleaning my room — the only place in the house where household help are banned — not that I’ve got anything to hide — trust me, it’s just not viable to have vibrators, handcuffs and porn in this house. Everything will always be discovered by someone.
You think you’ve got skeletons in your closet? If you’ve got skeletons, I’ve got cadavers in my wardrobe. Yes. Cadavers. No amount of dead bones can beat the hell out of rotten, flesh-infested cadavers. My past is THAT bad.
It’s a shame I wasn’t born in the 70′s, I would’ve spent my teenage years in the colourful 80′s. Think neon bangles, asymetrical tops and high hair. Oh yes. The higher the hair the closer to god. But alas, the 80′s brought me nothing but tacky grief.
Anyhoo, I thought I’d share a couple of pictures. Blast from the past they say.
Picture of me on my 6th grade graduation. Look at how I appear to be winking in front of the camera. Gross, isn’t it? I look like I got a stroke or something. At 12.
A picture of an anorexic 17 or 18 year old me swinging an extra large Hermes handbag — actually — this ain’t a handbag, this is fuckin luggage. Take note of the hair. It’s a wig that belongs to one of my friends who have leukemia when I visited her in a hotel. Yeah, leukemia… or whatever disease it is that makes your hair fall off when you get chemotherapy. Look at those arms. My god, I miss them. You can’t really get any skinnier than that. I think I was like 85 pounds or something. Click the thumbnails for 3 other wannabe trannie whore pics.
Man I looked like a cheap trash whore.
Picture of me and my best friend Tony 2-3 years ago in Amanpulo. My cheeks are soo chubby and my mouth looks like it’s gonna spit/puke any second. Ya think being a chav is a 2004 thing? He’s been a chav before chavs were born in this planet. Ya can’t get any chavvier than someone who was born from Liverpool. It took me a good 3 whole days of 8-hour sunbathing to achieve that tan whereas he ended up looking like a lobster.
Speaking of Tony, whom I owe a phone call this week, the poor guy is flying to New York from London today for 6 weeks. Like everyone else in this world (except me), he’s venturing out to the big apple to find a better job. He quit his job last year because he’s just utterly sick of London. According to him, he’ll spent the next 6 weeks looking for a job in the music industry… and a company who can sponsor him a visa. If he’s lucky, good. If not, he’ll go back to London and live his life. I told him a few weeks ago that getting a US Working Visa is like asking for the moon to turn blue. I mean, with all the illegal immigrant boat people all over the world, I have the impression getting a working visa is hard. I just wish him luck though.
Anyway, I’m off. My mom’s throwing one of her dinner parties with her stanky friends and I have to take a shower. I smell like a goat already and it ain’t funny.
Hugs and kisses.
I’m terribly, terribly sorry for the lack of updates. I can’t believe I’ve just put you guys on a limbo and haven’t updated in ages. I’ve been extremely busy at work and I’ve been feeling down lately.
In any case, let’s get down to business.
Sometime last week, I rejoined this UK-based gay personals website called OUTINTHEUK.com. I promise you, that site is the breeding ground of bitchiness. In fact, I don’t even go there to make friends or to make sucky sucky 5 dolla offers to uncut europeans. Instead, I go there for their "boards". The boards feature is just like any online forum, except everyone there reeks of bitchiness and drama. It’s a good thing really — put those social skills into action.
I was bored one time so I decided to give these
bland Brit gay/bi boys an instant sex change.
If I were god, I’d give everyone in this planet fantastic plastic bodies… bodies that could make them earn several millions of dollars a year. So, armed with Macromedia Fireworks and Style.com, I gave them (and myself) the gift of beauty. OUTer beaty.
Click any of the thumbnails below to see my creations.
A new window will pop up with a long graphic containing a batch of hot chicks. They’re child-safe so don’t you worry about nipples and orifices being exposed to your offspring.
If the image map doesn’t work, use these links instead:
I think there were 1 or 2 guys who complained how they didn’t like their dresses and how they want to be a slut versus a glamorous gal but I told them I don’t do porn — I only create beautiful people.
Now that’s all said and done, there’s this one guy, Hembers and he turned me into Paris Hilton.
They’re very hot chicks, don’t you agree?
So out of all the hot chicks you’ve seen, who do YOU think is the hottest? Answers on comments please.
Ciao for now.
Disclaimer: get your barf bag handy. The picture you are about to see below is horrible. And no, I’m not talking about the Ungaro and the Cavalli.
Last Saturday over dinner, my local designer friend Tina and I were planning on what to do on our birthday this year. Her birthday is the next day after mine — although I have to stress out that she’s at least 10 years older than me. ;)
I haven’t thrown a huge birthday bash in ages. The last time I threw a party for myself was back when I turned 17 (+2), at the penthouse suite of an Ian Schrager Hotel in London. I had around 100 gatecrashers plus 20-or-so random internet geeks come into the party. I could never forget the look on the doorman’s faces when me and my thingie friend (ex-crush) called Dave from Edinburgh smuggled numerous booze and tons of bottles of Clicquot and Cristal inside 3 Prada and Vuitton suitcases the night before.
Back then, I had the hots for that ex-crush. Shame he ended up with this Indian or something girl called Shabana. If he only knew how I fancied him badly. Oh well.
I on the other hand, did the side dish instead of
the main course.
I basically ended up with Shabana’s friend — another guy called Dave — who was an actor for commercials, who, at that time, had Pot-o-Noodle and Tango adverts under his belt. He was alright looking I guess… but the sex was bad. It was my fault though. I couldn’t get an erection, not that it matters cause I’m a bottom bitch. I literally didn’t have the libido at that time – I was utterly drug-fucked, casualty at its finest, pro-bono cocaine sponsored by that Turk guy Ronnie, who brought this weird psycho ward friend who looked exactly like the thin man who had the hair smelling fetish in Charlie’s Angels.
Oh the memories. Since then, I haven’t really thrown any hedonistic birthday parties.
This year however, I can feel the call of nature… and peer pressure. After all, I’m turning 18 strong>(+5). Tina suggested that we should throw a joint birthday bash in the rooftop of one of her condos with everyone dressed up like a bitch. This includes all the guys — everyone has to wear high heels. Heels, lipstick and hair extensions galore.
Honestly, this is one fine line I’ve never crossed before.
Sure, I may be a bent queer mother fucker that carries a handbag but me in a wig and heels? Nuh uh. I’ve never done that, at least publicly. Personally I think it’s too much. I live in a small world and I don’t want any members of my clan see me abuse the powers of a stiletto.
Drag queens also scare me. Whenever I hear the word "drag", I get mental pictures of 6-foot tall, extremely hairy, gay white men with cheap K-mart make up, hooker-like stockings, cheap outfits and a voice that doesn’t match.
I honestly find them despicable. A complete insult
I don’t want to do drag. When I’m gonna dress up like a real girl, I wanna dress up like a REAL girl. Tall, lanky, Eastern European skinny son of a bitch that strut the runways in Milan. I want va-va-voom instead of bra-bra-broom! Drag queens want huge, watermelon-sized, stuff-a-turkey-on-your-chest big tits, I want it flat-chested. A mere raisin on top of a thin-crust pizza. That sort of thing. They like big curly, high blonde wigs, I like long, extremely thin, slick and straight hair. They like cheesy, cheap porn-star 12-inch high platform stilletos, I like $750 pumps with a 4-inch heel. They want hideously thick makeup, I want it simple, fresh and polished.
Even Galliano’s gone real world. Bye
bye theatrical. I don’t wanna be a
sucky sucky 5 dolla me love you
long time 10 dolla you pay 20 dolla i
gib free roast duck cheap Thai ladyboy.
In other words, I want it real…and flat chested.
And not fake. I feel sorry for those young, tissue-paper stuffing teenage girls. Hello young ‘uns… ya should be happy for your tits. Models have small tits. Remember: big tits are for mothers and hookers.
DO YOU BLOODY WANT TO LOOK LIKE A
WATERMELON CHESTED PREGNANT MOTHER?
THE ONLY REASON WHY BOYS LIKE HUGE TITS
IS BECAUSE THEY FANCY THEIR OWN MOTHERS.
THERE’S A TERM FOR IT. "MILF", MOTHERS I’D
LIKE TO FUCK. (bestfriendsmom.com)
The tentative date for our party is Saturday, March 19th. We can’t make it later than that cause we’re going to Boracay again on the 23rd, then I’m off to Singapore in April. I’ve got 54 days to drop to 100 pounds, lose weight, think and buy an outfit, get fantastically brilliant skin and wax my entire body. Should I wear trousers or a dress? Should I show some skin or the finest frocks ever?
Fucking hell, how hard is it to be a girl?
It’s 6:02AM and I just got home. God what a night I had.
Now that I’m home, I feel a bit feverish… my head hurts sooo much it can split into several pieces.
A lot of stuff happened tonight I wish I brought my camera with me… but my sister forgot it completely so we left it at home.
One thing that really shocked me was the fact that I
encountered a head-to-toe inspection by the
Spanish unfashionable police.
I went to Government (this local club) earlier. I spent a good couple of hours dancing like a fucking bitch. Thank god there weren’t a lot of people — I don’t like crowded clubs; I prefer it about 3/4ths filled.
Anyway… I danced like a proper glamorous cunt. Oh yes, everyone stared at me. Even a bloody, half-naked (they all do that) muscle mary came up and said something to me but I completely ignored him; I just smiled because I didn’t pay attention to what he said.
I really had a blast. It was like being Cameron Diaz on the Charlie’s Angels’ dancefloor. I was invincible — and sober. Well, I probably had far too many vodka red bulls but at least there weren’t any drugs, which was a good thing.
So there I was, dancing my booty off on the dancefloor, new Fendi shoes and brilliantly customized jeans and all… then a bunch of spaniards, 3 of them to be exact, 2 girl fag hags and 1 faggot hairy-faced son of a bitch, spent their night trying to pick me up.
I know, I know, I sound like I’m full of myself but it was so bloody obvious it wasn’t even funny. The guy was literally trying to dance with me but I’m just dancing with my friends.
Always use Paris Hilton as your role model: dance
like a slut but don’t let the horny wankers touch
So yeah, I ignored the 3 Spaniards and spent the night dancing, drinking and chit chatting with friends.
Even my prodigy was there, the young one who was trying to be ME, because I left the scene ages ago. We did the usual hi, hellos, but I didn’t pay attention to him that much — my Fendi deserves better.
He’s an aspiring, young, chu-chu person. I don’t blame him though, he’s like only 18 or something. Hopefully one day he’ll realize fashion is only fashion — it’s only clothes, it’s only material stuff. You shouldn’t take it seriously. Considering he can’t even buy the real thing and he’d rather go to flea markets.
I give him A+ for Effort though. He does try it hard… really hard and for that I give him credit. After all, he’s still fabulous (gag me — faux fur choking my throat) and he’s friends with a lot of up-there people.
I should give him a makeover one time. I think it
would be a lot fun. I won’t even tell you what he
WORE on his hair a couple of weeks ago — thank
god he showed up today with elastic trash-free
You know, go to the Gucci store to get new season stuff instead of buying consignment shop "vintage" (vintage means old and crap) Gucci. But then again, I hate Gucci these days… so utterly boring.
Anyway, so I danced and I danced, I drank and I drank until my babysitter younger sister drove outside the club and called me.
I told my friends I have to go out for a bit… need to tell my sister I don’t wanna go home yet — it was around 4AM. You know me though… I have my own car but I don’t drive cause I got rear-ended twice and my dad won’t let me renew my license.
Then there they were AGAIn: the 3 Spaniards were outside the club. Fag hags and hairy-faced short faggot, all sitting on the gutter.
I had a mini conversation with them. I swear to god they were ALL over me, like they’ve never seen my type before. I certainly don’t mind the attention, I mean who on earth bloody hates attention? I know I suffer from Attention Deficit Disorder but this sort of attention was a whole new level.
The faggot was all like telling me how I looked so fabulous and fashionable (ick). But being the fake modest bitch that I am, I told them "Oh god no, I actually look like trash today because I didn’t put effort. I was just planning to have a simple night out and I’m just wearing simple clothes."
Which was true because usually whenever I go out, it takes a lot of fucking preparation and I have to wear my latest and finest gear — something that nobody has seen me wear before.
Then his 2 fag hag friends asked me EVERYTHING about my gear… and I mean everything.
1) Plain black t-shirt by James Perse
2) Very old Diesel jeans that I cut the waist off, same with the legs and then spray-painted it gold all over the place
3) My overused and overexposed Dior Rasta messenger bag
4) Dior Rasta watch
5) Louis Vuitton cuff bracelet
6) Fendi sneakers
Here’s the thing: they EVEN asked me what my underwear AND socks were — Calvin Klein boxers of course.
It was fashion police trying to be fashion police but they were soooo tactless and obsessed about me. I swear I’m not kidding. If you think I’m tactless, they’re like 10X more tactless than me. PROMISE.
Not satisfied with my gear, they made me spill the contents of my bag onto the road so they can take a peek at it.
1) Louis Vuitton wallet
2) Mobile phone
3) Dior lip gloss
4) Dior foundation
5) Cash, receipts, tissue paper, miscellaneous paper shit
It’s funny how the faggot was sooo clueless. He even asked me about my Dior foundation, like what it was, whether it’s a condom case or not. At first I was shy to tell him "it’s fucking foundation" because that would imply I use make up. Then he played some sort of a guessing game on what it was…. I even thought he was just winding me up but no… he really was bloody clueless. God. Absofuckinglutely clueless.
So yeah… those 2 Spaniards were weird. They were nice and friendly but they were absolutely weird. When they asked about my age, I said 17… then I asked one of the fag hags how old I look like and they said I look younger.
Thank you Jesus, Mary, Joseph. There is a god afterall INDEED.
I got bored of my 3 Spanish fans so I told them I gotta go with my friends. I told them we’re going to this other club "Bed".
Fast forward 30 minutes later, little Mr. Spanish boy was there… right behind me as in literally.
He must have heard me telling my friend "oh look it’s my stalker" because when I went upstairs in the club, he stopped following me and stuff.
He wasn’t really THAT good looking. He’s doable, but only if you’re drunk. I think he’s one of those stale, 20-something Eurotrash expats who venture out in the far east to get an easy life. I’m taller than him, he has dark hair, a hairy face… well, not really hairy but he looks like the last time he shaved was about 3 days ago. Typical spanish looks. He wore some short-sleeved button down shirt (only taxi drivers wear them) and some pants. The 2 fag hags wore spaghetti strap tops. One of them was 28 years old but she looked like 21.
Hello!!!!!!!!! Spaghetti straps. Oh yes. Disgusting, innit?
He was doable but not really THAT doable. I’ve seen far cuter guys. Like the kid whose claim to fame is that he’s Paris Hilton.
Thing is, EVERYBODY here claims they’re Paris
Paris Hilton my bloody arse, your hat ain’t even Von Dutch (or should I say Von Vagina because it’s soo common), your Coach bag looks fake — it was pink. PINK Coach. Did Coach ever make pink square fanny packs? I have no idea. I never pay attention to Coach. American commercial trash that you can get from Nordstrom, Macy’s and the "for-the-masses" stores where you have to use a steel shopping cart to shop for stuff. His shoes were a bit dodgy and he was wearing a zip-up jacket that skater kids from 1997 used to wear.
Paris Hilton indeed.
Nobody, and I mean nobody here in the fucking Philippines wear DIOR for god’s sake! It’s not funny!
NOTE TO NEW, UPCOMING DESIGNERS OUT
THERE: MEDIA KILLS. NEVER LET A FUCKING
CELEBRITY GET PHOTOGRAPHED BY THE MEDIA
BECAUSE IT WILL ONLY CHEAPEN YOUR LABEL.
Ugh. This is just me blabbing my arse off. Ignore me. I’m nice and sweet.
Anyway, I thought he was quite cute — take all of the junk minimum wage clothes off — and then tell him to fuck my arse.
But I don’t think he’d be capable of doing that because he’s bloody 17 and he’s a fuckin kid. I need a guy that’s about 2 or 3 years older than me. Give me a bit a maturity, you know… but not viagra.
All I can say is, show me your goods and I’ll show you mine.
Whoever has the best goods wins the crown. Aren’t we being a bit too shallow and pretentious now?
No further comments your honor.
I’m off to bed. I need to wash my face, brush my teeth and do my Obagi ritual.
Good night everyone and I love you all.
Repeat after me:
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
I need a bloody boyfriend.
Reality hit me when I got up about 2 hours ago. It’s not funny waking up at 7PM with "You’re so Vain" playing on my ipod. I spent the entire day sleeping at my younger sister’s bed because my bedroom is full of shite. I haven’t had the maid change my sheets and my bed is full of clothes and paperwork.
Anyway, here’s my realization: you know there’s something wrong in your life when you’re 18 (+4) years old and:
1) You spend a majority of your time working at home.
2) You sleep on your younger sister’s bed because your own bed is full of crap.
3) You barely get out of the house. When you do get out of your bird cage, the only people you end up socializing/having some form of a human-to-human contact with are the ones from either the medical (aestheticians, massage therapists, salon stylist, manicure and pedicure ladies) and retail (shop assistants, store managers, door openers, store security guards) industries.
4) You have far too many profiles at various online personals web sites and get far too many messages but you ignore all of them and not take them seriously because you think you’re far too superior than all of those junk.
5) You’re surrounded by couples. Everywhere you go, every thing you see that have genitalia is coupled with something. The planet is one huge couples-for-christ convention where everyone’s motto is procreation. Your friends are either married… or have a bf/gf.
6) The only form of intimacy in your life is whenever you snuggle with your faggot cat and the sounds of his purr makes you sleep. It’s so wrong and so intimate to the point where your own cat thinks you’re another cat.
7) You get orgasms not by traditional sexual methods but 3 things: whenever you flex your credit card to go shopping, whenever you open paper bags with your recently purchased stuff and whenever the FedEx guy arrives… not because he’s cute — instead, you know that package from Neiman Marcus, Saks Fifth Avenue or Dior is inside the FedEx van.
8) And when you do go out with your friends to go clubbing, you’d rather put on a huge dose of high-voltage pomp, attitude and arrogance instead of being the lonely, desperate-for-a-fuck lonely debbie standing alone at the corner of the club. You shrug off people who show interest because you *never* socialize with mere mortals.
9) You’ve lost your libido last year, back when you were 17 (+2) years old because you’ve slept with every Tom, Dick and Harry out there. However, there may be (extremely rare) times when you get horny (aka mating season) — and when that happens, you buy plane tickets to somewhere far flung, fuck the brains out of all their citizens and suck as much cockerel as possible. You’d rather travel for to get a one night stand than do "locals".
My god. What a boring life eh?
You’re so vain… You probably think this song is about you. You’re so vain! I’ll bet you think this song is about you, don’t you? Don’t you?