Typical Sunday late nighter here. I’m bored and I’ve got nothing to do. Blondes such as myself have to use moments of loneliness to exercise our intellect. Thought I’d create some friction using my mere 2 brain cells and purge whatever is left in my head.
Bryanboy loves TheBosh. Read my interview here.
I also created a MySpace profile after being bombarded with requests. Add me if you love me. www.myspace.com/bryanboy.
(BRB – I gotta take a poo)
Back. Not a lot in there.
Say hi to my friends at the LunchBox. Apparently, I’m the talk of the town where people with eating disorders gather around in a circle and purge their soggy biscuits in a synchronized orgy. Some bimbo pretended to buy an LV bag and used my photos on there. One of the members had impressive 007 skills and found her way to my blog. Hilarious.
Click here for the discussion thread. Registration required to read the spectacle. I love fat fans. These bitches are lucky. For years I’ve *forced* myself to develop an eating disorder but I simply can’t resist food. One day when I lose my anorexic-wannabe figure, you’ll find me in that place.
Thought I’d mention, my fat ass just finished an entire bowl of microwaved pasta and a can of coke. Insomniac/drug addict food. I really should switch to rabbit food soon. Less calories, less trips to the magic white bowl that flushes.
I’m off to see my doctor later this morning. I stopped taking my bronchitis meds cause they gave me palpitations. Even 2 grams of cocaine don’t do me shit as far as I remember. But these meds, I’m telling you, it feels like as if I’ve got some tribal drumbeaters shoved deep in my chest.
I haven’t stopped smoking. I’ve cut back though. Down to half a pack per day. Except on weekends. Hah. In fact, I haven’t smoked a cigarette from 2PM on Saturday until I got up yesterday.
Speaking of vices, I thought I’d share an old story from the Bryanboy Life Archives. I still haven’t disposed these cock drugs so if you know anyone whose got a problem getting their pecker up, let me know.
A few months ago, while hopping from one drugstore to another to get Seroxat & Xanax to no avail (it’s pretty much out of stock everywhere. too many insane people in this city I guess), I came across a newly-opened pharmacy in town who was willing to dispense pretty much anything they have – I was able to get a month’s supply of Seroxat without prescription despite leaving mine at home. All it took was me filling out this form asking for my shrink’s name, phone number and hospital. I happily obliged.
Once I had my insanity pills in my hand, I suddenly got an orgasm: my pill-buying experience was effortless! If you do the math correctly, why not, you know, buy other pills… I then had a *good* panic attack. Ok. Which ones should I buy?
I quickly channeled my inner Pete Doherty-slash-Internet Geek and immediately thought of the tens thousands of spam I get in my email accounts on a daily basis. I mean, surely if they promote it by spam, it must be good — too good to be true.
It took me about a minute to think of what I’m gonna get. Being the novice at prescriptions, trust me darling, I’ve only done streetwear for years, I somewhat had a hard time calculating — don’t blame me, I only have 2 brain cells.
Ambien? sleeping aid. No.
Phentermine? diet pills. No.
Oxycontin? narcotics anonymous pain killers. No.
Viagra? cock drug. I still have the libido of a 16 year old, thank you very much. But still, I’m a botom bitch, so even if I had a 26-inch hard, throbbing cock, it would be useless cause I take it up the shithole. Well, after my SSRIs, that’s a different story, anyway, so, no, mot definitely Not.
And then it suddenly occured to me — Cialis.
That’s right. What the hell is Cialis? I mean,
it starts with the letter C, like Chanel, so
surely it can’t be that bad, right?
I sashayed my way back to the counter, flashing the counter girl with my biggest smile, giving her high voltage "I always get what I want" attitude and told her I want 10 pills of Cialis.
That’s right. 10 pills. Surely it can’t be that bad and I could easily dispose it if I didn’t want it in the first place.
A couple of seconds later, she came back with 8 pills. Unfortunately they were out of stock. I paid her in cash, about US$110 for all 8 pills.
Like a fashion victim coming out of an
Hermes store, I quickly opened one of
the boxes when I got inside the car and
then reality hit me. Not in my buttocks.
But in my balls.
One look at the insert and at the back of the box and it said "Indication: Treatment of Erectile Dysfunction".
My god — I bet everyone at the pharmacy were laughing their asses off as soon as I got out of the store.
I swear to god, never again I’ll go to that pharmacy. I don’t have the face to show after this whole hoola baloo.
And never again I’ll touch prescription. Like what I said before, sober is the best way to go.
And vodka red bulls.
Memories eh? They’re nice to have.
Lesson learned: don’t buy drugs if you don’t
know what they are.
I had to learn it the
hard blonde way.
So again, if you know anyone who needs this cock drug, let me know.
BTW, here are more pics of my new Balenciaga bag as requested by one of my readers. I added a watermark so those bitches can’t use pics and pretend they bought shit. As my friend Gian said, we can smell poverty from afar.
Enjoy! I’ll use my bag later when I go to my pulmonologist.
P.S. Infatuation should be removed in the dictionary. You’re in, you’re fat, you’re uation, which is a shortcut for ovulation. In other words, infatuation SUCKS.
P.P.S.S. I like you. No matter what they say.
P.P.P.S.S.S. Speaking of like, when are you getting me a 26-karat ring ala Paris Squared? It doesn’t have to be a diamond you know, you can start with Cubic Zirconia. That’s fine coz we all know diamonds don’t last forever. CZs on the other hand lasts as long as we both enjoy. At least they’re disposable. You know who you are.
P.P.P.P.S.S.S.S. For the love of god already, please email me and tell me you love me. email@example.com. Text messages/SMS can be sent to +63-915-785-1492.
It’ Sunday, early early morning and I just got up about an hour ago. I pretty much spent my entire Saturday, sleeping. Entire day gone to waste. I got home at around 1 or 2PM yesterday. I can’t for the life of god, exactly remember as I didn’t pay attention to the time. Anyhoo, I’m feasting on a bar of cadbury dairy milk because I have a sugar craving. No wonder I’m getting fat.
Onto the juicy bits, shall we?
My designer buddy Gian and I checked in at Linden Suites on Friday afternoon because it was the same day as his overhyped/well-promoted/much anticipated fashion show.
That’s a Gian Romano tank top I’m wearing ova there, paired off with gray Neil Barrett jeans and a Dior Homme jacket. Anyway, Gian’s been working on his collection for god, 4-5 months, after he did his internship with As Four in NYC.
To be honest, I haven’t had the chance to take photos of the clothes/models on the runway because everything was sooo fast. I thought the menswear bit are much much better, and stronger than the womenswear, particularly the jackets. My favourite piece has got to be this black women’s biker-type jacket etc. It’s got such good construction and tailoring.
I saw some of my old-time, the usual, model friends (Razel, Ria, Amy) backstage:
I’ll probably post pictures of the collection once it’s out on the papers. Overall I think it was a hit. Congrats Gian for the good work – I hope everything sells out so you’ll have the dough for our little trip this fall. ;)
After the show, we all went back to the hotel to chill-out, change outfits and relax. We went to Cafeteria for a quick meal before going to Embassy, ugh, as usual. Everyone, for some reason, ends up at Embassy one way or another.
Saw quite a few familiar faces and a couple of new ones. It’s all good. I even had a girl come up to me telling me she reads my blog; I thought that was sweet. I was sooo drunk (and well, whatever) that night nothing registers on my mind anymore. But yes, I thought you were fun — so please, when you can, email me to say hi. ;)
There was even this really really cute short midget-type guy who was behind me in the queue on the toilets. I forgot his name. I thought he had nice teeth.
And I thought he was sweet because after using the toilets, he came up to me to hand back some rolled paper note I left at the toilet. Not that it mattered anyway, it was less than $2! LOL.
And then there’s this couple, Victor and Jenn. Victor is one of those male models that Gian used for the show. That’s right my friends, "male model".
I’m probably gonna get flack for this but seriously, what is the first thing that comes to your mind whenever you hear the term "male model"? In my case it’s not even zoolander.
It’s like whenever I hear that term, I get instant
hallucinations… visions… mental images of tall,
gigantic steroid-taking, gym-bunnying, rock-hard
abs, ogres who take off (and of course, wear)
their clothes, all in the name of "male beauty",
a concept that I kind of don’t understand.
I’m sure you all know the stereotypes — the ones who would use their bodies to befriend, blackmail and sleep with any faggot booking agent, designer, scout, photographer, PR person, society matron, industry fanatics, whatever, just to get some work. And since their careers don’t last too long, they all end up being hiv-infected prostitutes, waiters, failed actors, or worse, porn stars.
I dunno. I just find them kind of intimidating in a way. Big bodies and all. Ugh! Or maybe I’m just used to hanging out and seeing girl models. Either way, whatever. It’s just me being judgmental.
But Victor and his girlfriend were nice. We had small chats here and there and Victor was kind of suggesting that I get a hobby of some sort. Well, my blog is my hobby and I kinda like to shop. Does that count? Hahaha. I didn’t know how to answer that one to be honest.
And fuck the gym. Oh yes, fuck the gym.
I kinda had a fight with Gian because I was too fucked up in the hotel. He wanted to sleep that bad (after clubbing/nose powdering) but being the insomniac that I am, I stayed up all day packing my stuff and being all noisy etc.
And then there was the little drama with Razel. Oh well.
Anyhoo, my driver arrived late, something like 12 or whatever at the hotel, then we dropped Gian off at home, then went all the way down south to drop Jenn and Victor home. Had another trip at McDonald’s — simply couldn’t resist having a nice, good ol Big Mac after all that crap.
I hope I’ll patch things up with Gian. Soon. Otherwise, I’ll just confine to my newly purchased Balenciaga bag for now — Michael Salientes, you are **such** a bad influence.
Baboosh for now.
First things first.
Both my sisters wanted to get their pedicures done at lunch time earlier and I tagged along cause it would’ve been nice to get some serious fresh air. Besides, I simply couldn’t sleep earlier.
Rather than babysitting the two at the nail bar, I asked our driver to drop me off to my pulmonologist. Very nice husband and wife team. They were very comforting. Dr. Andrew Gonzales, that’s his name. I still have this cough (from 2 weeks ago) that just won’t go and I sometimes find it painful whenever I smoke — DUH! He did this thing in my ears a couple of times, listened to my breathing, asked me all sorts of questions, the meds I’ve been taking etc.
Looks like I still have Acute Bronchitis, Allergic Rhinitis and Otitis Media. God, I’m such a diseased person. And there you have it — after 8 or 9 years of smoking Marlboro Reds, I finally contracted some damn respiratory disease.
My doc prescribed me all sorts of stuff, I have 6 new medications to add to my existing meds (3). He gave me this Budesonide Nasal Spray, PPA/Syndecol, Cetirizine, Norfloxacin/Euroflox, Bambuterol/Bambec and Mefenamic Acid. Add this to my daily diet of insanity pills – Seroxat, Rivotril and Xanax. God knows what my blood is made of already. At this rate, it won’t be long until I get narcotics.
Think about it, I’d be willing to skip all these if they just prescribe me 1 narcotic, oh yes, just 1, once a day, every day for a couple of days. The thought of me taking all these pills is just a royal pain in the ass.
Apres-Doctor, I asked my driver to bring me to the mall so I can comfort myself with my newfound disease.
Well hello — I’m in the third world so there’s
nothing comforting. Can you say the words
boresville and genericsville?
I ended up buying a magazine, went to Starbucks for some Iced Cafe Latte and smoked a couple of fags — yes, I know.
Then I dropped by at the department store, went straight to the Dior counter and bought 3 things – Dior Plastic Lip Gloss, some Bronze-like powder and Dior Skinflash Radiance Booster Pen. New additions to my ever-growing cosmetic collection. It’s funny how I have all these cosmetic but I don’t even use them!
You know what they say – the eye is hungrier
than the stomach.
French fries, mashed potatoes, veggies, coleslaw and side dishes:
Are you part of the gold-collar crowd? Yay for Simple Life 4.
Um, Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and fuck, yes, I’m flattered to have a fan, but why do I get the feeling there’s someone’s copying my writing style out there (hint: blind items), days after the plagiarism police notified me of such atrocity? I mean gawd, I don’t even know how to write, hence me asking for a Coffee Table Book deal. Hah!
Must buy soon – Dior Gisele Cannage Medium Handheld bag. $1,230 at Eluxury.com.
I’m planning to go to Moscow/Russia again for about 2-3 weeks on mid or late November, perhaps go on a 1-week expedition near the North Pole? Anyone wanna be travel budddies? You pay for your own airfare, your own expenses, I’ll cover the hotel, my airfare, my expenses. I don’t care whether you’re a girl or a boy, straight or gay as long as you are not heavier than my check-in luggage. Trust me on this one. Email me, firstname.lastname@example.org.
FYI, First Class fares from Bangkok to Moscow was around $1,500 and Biz was about $1,350 roundtrip; this was on crappy Aeroflot last year. Economy is much much cheaper I’m sure but I never fly economy.
If you’re coming from another part of the
world, I’m sure you can get your crotch to
Moscow much cheaper than a night with
a Vegas hooker.
In any case, email me, whoever you are, wherever you are in the world. It won’t hurt to say hi. Repeat after me: hi. "Hi!". I’m lonely. It’s 11:02PM.
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening wherever you are in the world.
I know it’s old news but it’s only until today that I got the chance to watch the Dior F/W Couture show. I take back what I said a few months ago when I thought Galliano’s gone sedation. His new stuff are spectacular; a great tribute to my good ol’ century-egg-old buddy Christian Dior.
Erin O’Connor – poised and perfect as ever.
My favourite was his take on the "New Look". Models twirling all over the place, fantastic beats, the fabrics, ever so lightweight, the clothes, everything – it was very dramatic and moving.
I’m just disappointed with Linda. Come on – she’s *the* original queen bee bitch but when she hit the runway, she walked as if she’s constipated. Someone should’ve taken the broomstick up her asshole backstage. She almost tripped, not once, but twice – unless my eyes prove me wrong. Even the skinny young eastern european ex-hookers had a better walk than Linda.
Note to Linda: the next time you’re doing runway,
please consider taking a wheelchair and an
oxygen tank with you. I love you, I really do,
but I’m concerned about your welfare.
Even Kirsty Hume, for fucks sake, who resurrected from the
abyss ashes, was more graceful than you.
Which outfit did I like most?
I’d make a very good grandmother if I had an
outfit like that.
P.S. Click here to view the entire Dior Collection in pictures or here if you want to see the video.
P.P.S.S. If you know any well-hung, under-30 year old, sugar older brother-type, please let me know. I want some serious couture. My email address is email@example.com.
Some early morning babble here. I’m having another costochondritis attack and my ribs are aching – there’s no better way to wait for the xanax to kick such as posting here.
If I’m not mistaken, sending unsolicited faxes, like spam, to random fax numbers/companies is illegal in the USA.
But I’m in the third world so that gives me
international & diplomatic immunity.
So here’s what I did earlier.
I searched on goodolgoogle for some random fax numbers of some publishers and literary agents – Simon & Schuster, IMG (yes, they do literary arts too, but heck, I want to be a superdupersuperdupersupermodel), Time Warner, Random House, etc. Once I had that list, I blasted their faxes with a simple, 1-page fax. Here’s a copy of the PDF file that I faxed and here’s a little graphic of what the fax looked like.
Seriously, I think it would be a fantastic thing for me to have my own coffee table book with all my pictures on it and my tales and my squabbles. It would be a very nice thing to have on each and every table or desk in the whole wide world. Your visiting guests will love you better than the stack of JC Penney or Victoria’s Secret catalog or whatever that you’ve got under your sofa.
Anyway, I could’ve selected a better-looking picture of me but I decided to be sedated. I mean, fuck it – it was around 4:30AM when I did the thing. Besides, I don’t want them to have some culture shock.
Hopefully by tomorrow, the lucky recipients of
my magic fax (otherwise known as gossipping
watercooler receptiobitches) will pass along my
domain name thru intraoffice gossip, post-it notes,
word of mouth etc.
Who knows, I might be set for global domination – KNOCK KNOCK CLICHE – a coffee table book, a clothing line, fragrance and then hollywood!
All it requires is a thick face darling. And there’s no other face thicker in this planet than mine.
People often think on how I have this so-called "glamorous" and "expensive" life. I don’t. I’m also just a middle class twit (honest!) who loves everything ghetto, what’s that term, ghetto fabulouzzzzz.
Like normal commoners and mere mortals such as yourself, I, too, have this thing about McDonalds. I’m actually worse than a pregnant bitch when I get these food cravings. One day I’ll crave for true, hard-to-find Indian food, the next day I’ll crave for a calorie fuck-my-body-with-lard fest at McD’s.
Meet my "Big Breakfast" — an assortment of
cardboard pieces deep fried in oil, lard, and anal
lubricant of all sorts.
Since I were having my facial at my aesthetician today, my sister and I decided to pop by at McDonald’s before hand. Yes — I do like McDonald’s even after years of bitching on how I don’t do McD’s. I mean, the last time I had McDonald’s was something around either earlier this year, or last year. I can’t remember. It’s not often though.
Curious what goes on behind the doors of my aesthetician’s + dermatologist’s office? Here’s me having my usual glycopeel cleaning/extraction facial sessions. I do these either on a weekly basis (if my skin is crap) or bi-weekly if god loves me. I just have to have to have to have to do these regularly so I won’t get a zit etc.
You know how bad a single zit can be for your
self-esteem. It’s pretty much social suicide.
So why risk it when prevention is better
Here’s the fun part after all the extraction work etc. I don’t know what they call it but this is supposed to help close down your pores. Take note how red my face is afterwards — my aesthetician removed white heads etc. It’s facial abuse at it’s finest. But hey, 6 hours of a red face is worth a week or two weeks of flawless, beautiful skin. Try it! Get an extraction facial today and see what happens. :)
Wanna take a peek at the usual day at the clinic? It’s full of MatronAirs at their full force.
All I can say, I don’t care about you all cause I’m a pretty little thing and I loves it.
P.S. I’m 1-month overdue to see my shrink. I was supposed to see him back on June 15… I think I’ll see him sometime this week. *fingers crossed*. I’ve run out of Xanax and god knows when my next anxiety attack wil strike. I’m scared!
I got a couple of emails from y’all about that picture of me with really thin arms. Yeah, I noticed that too. I actually kinda like it. Now I know which angle to use to achieve that skeletal arms effect. Hahahaha! *kidding*. Nah, I thought that was really skinny looking.
I don’t think I’m *that* skinny. I mean, yes, I am skinny, fine, there’s no need to propel anorexia by saying "I’m fat", but personally, I think my body is normal and healthy for any 5’9/5’10, 23 year old boy. I mean, I weighed myself earlier today and I’m like (shock-horror) 124 lbs. I’m 14 pounds overweight. I’ve got man tits and love handles for god’s sake. I think those 2 are the 14 pounds I needed to shed. Oh and my bingo wings, too.
Warning: you are about to see me reeking of
masculinity and testosterone. I recommend that
you scroll down as fast as you can or get those
vomit bags ready.
Hilarious, isn’t it? I’ve never done sleaze before and I thought this is funny.
Sucky sucky 5 dolla, me love you long time 10
dolla, you pay 20 dolla I gib free roast duck!
Eeeeeew. God I look like a fucking $5 prostitute on those photos.
Do I officially look like a boy now?
Awful eh? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Remind me not to do porn.
Nobody will ever buy porn with me on it.
It will be a major flop. I think I’m better off being the little vain fairy that I am with the side job as a fluffer – I’m good behind the scenes. I give very good blowjobs, afterall.
I confess — I’ve been chit chatting to sexually-confused, underaged, jail magnets these days. God I’m such a pedophile.
Meet Mr. Leon Grant Bussinger of www.grantb88.com.
Grant is a 17 year old hardcore republican proud WASP from the swamps of Tampa, Florida. You should’ve seen his reaction and his balls when I told him he looked Jewish and how can he be a WASP when both of his names are blacker than
Naomi Campbell, Iman, Michael Jordan, Lil Kim.
He’s such a darling. We talked on the phone sometime last week for 3 whole hours with him saying "Oh my god" for at least 300 times per hour.
He also claims he’s straight however, my ever reliable gaydar says he’s lying. I mean, come on, what kind of straight 17 year old reads GQ, wants to study acting in Julliard (sp?), currently a waiter at Shake and Bake (knock-knock-cliche, we all know about waiters who want to be actors but end up being drug addicts and prostitutes), wants Prada, knows ton about fashion, hangs out with a ton of girls (fag hags), whines, whinges and complains about everything in the world whenever the opportunity arrives?
EVERYBODY TELL HIM HE’S IN DENIAL. D-E-N-I-A-L DENIAL!
THE WALK IN WARDROBE IS SO MUCH
BETTER THAN THE FUCKING CLOSET!
TALK ABOUT SUFFOCATION. YA NEED
SPACE FOR YER HANDBAGS SWEETHEART
Remember: teenage angst is your one-way
ticket to enchanted fagdom!
Anyway, I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not Grant is a breeder or a fag. I say FAG!
Regardless of his sexuality, I think he’s a really nice guy and I’m glad that we talked. If only he’s legal… and if only miscegenation is acceptable, I wouldn’t mind him being the father of my first child.
Think about it: mixed raced babies are the Chanel of babies. And there’s no other baby that I want coming from that of a **GAY** republican. Ok, maybe not Ed Schrock’s. EEEW. Nasty eh?
I love you all!
P.S. www.bryanboy.com is now live!
What a fun weekend it was. Let the pictures say it all.
On Saturday, I finally had the chance to u-haul my fat ass to my friend Tina’s apartment. I was bored and thought I’d hang out with some of my friends before going clubbing. As you know, my friend Tina is a local designer – and since I was kinda bored at the time, I went to one of the rooms and found a really nice dress. To shock everyone (well, nothing shocks my friends anymore. hahaha), I decided to wear the dress.
There has been that disgusting drag-wannabe picture of me on those blue tights scattered around the internet. But this one really bites the cake. Meet my 2nd official attempt in drag. LOL.
My arms are sooo fat thought. Actually, erase that. I’m SOOOO FAT!!!!! I need a couple more lipodissolve sessions. Ugh!
Both Lindsay Lohan and moi love Gaultier tank tops
After Tina’s place, we all had dinner, Japanese, at Zen, then went off to Club Embassy, as usual.
Sorry if I haven’t updated my blog in the past few days. Been slacking the past few days because of my meds. Ugh! And I still have cough. Terrible.
I’ll keep you posted in a bit. I’ve slept the entire Sunday off and it’s like 1:11AM in the morning. I need to gather my thoughts and my act together.
Love you all!!!
Good morning bitches! It’s 4:41AM on a Monday and I just got up.
I’ve been out since Friday afternoon, playing Little Miss Tour Guide to the recepient of the International Award for the Longest Gay Long Distance Relationship Ever.
How did I do? I sucked. Not literally, of course. I’m not a slut.
I failed to show them around places because there’s just absolutely no time… and I don’t know of any places to show them to. I’m a boring old fat hermit who has a sheltered life. If my memory serves me right, I brought them to 3 malls, my favourite cafe, a museum, an oyster bar, a Filipino restaurant, a club, a cafeteria restaurant and then a quickie drive to the railroad slums.
How generic. How boring eh? Well, I hope they did have fun though, in a way. I’m just bad at this "show me your city" thing because I’m clueless. If they had more time, we could’ve explored the city further.
The only thing that I can wish for at this point is that I hope they had a good impression of Manila and not think of it as a crappy third world place with nothing to do etc — which it is, in a way. LOL.
All of that aside, I had a little realization.
It absolutely sucks being around with a fucking couple. It’s the worst feeling in the world. If you could only see them the past weekend when we went shopping, They were just absolutely sweet.
It’s not just that — it’s the priceless bond that they have between them. The fact how they know each other well, how they accept and understand each other, blah blah blah. What a lucky couple. They’re very nice folks so I guess they deserve each other.
What about me though? How come I don’t get any offers?
And there I was, thinking, fucking hell, how come I don’t have a boyfriend after all these miserable years. Am I ugly? Am I undesirable? Am I really that complicated?
Fuck, do I have to sell myself and be a bloody prostitute and force-feed my customers with Rohypnol or any of those date rape pills and make them fall in love with me?
Or am I destined to be lonely forever?
Well, only time can tell. But at this point, all the roads lead to me being an old maid in the future.
Thank god for friends though. Oh yes, thank god for my friends force-feeding me vanilla ice cream on a cone to help me get past of those weird pangs of loneliness. And materialism. Temporary happiness can indeed be found by dropping by at the Louis Vuitton store. Hah! At least it’s better than sulking.
What an awful, awful day today was.
Don’t laugh – for some strange reason, God decided to punish me over the weekend for all the bad deeds I’ve done to mankind. He gave me a hideous zit on my left cheek. I don’t blame him though, I know I’ve been a really bad girl.
But come to think of it, he gave it to me right when I was suffering from a cough, colds and a chest infection/bronchitis.
Fuck it, it probably wasn’t even God. I bet it was Satan.
So off I went to my aesthetician first thing earlier in the morning. I had my zit injected, I also had an emergency extraction facial just to be sure I’m black/whitehead-free and I also had the usual microdermabrasion session. Gotta stay/gotta be flawless you know. I’ve got a gay couple flying in from Kuala Lumpur to visit Manila and I gotta play Little Miss Tour Guide, something I really despise because there’s absolutely nothing to do in Manila, not to mention the crap weather (heat and rain) and the lack of places to go to. I’ll probably just buy them dinner and a couple of drinks at some bar and let them explore on their own. I told one of the guys that I don’t go out during the day unless it’s life-threatening.
Anyway, my driver was off today so it was my fat bastard bitch of a sister who drove me to my aesthetician today. On our way back, I told her to stop on the road, in front of a shop, because I want to buy today’s newspapers. She stopped, I went out of the car and went inside the shop to buy newspapers.
I went out of the shop, not even 1 minute later, and she was NOWHERE to be seen.
I was standing there, on the road under the blistering heat, wearing nothing but a sweaty white t-shirt, gray tracksuit pants, white trainers and black chanel sunglasses. It was hot as in hotter than hell. I just had a facial done so my face is all red, I don’t have a cellphone, my handbag or even extra cash with me. Nothing. I felt absolutely naked. I was my "crash moment" (love that new term, thanks Oprah and thanks Hermes). I was so vulnerable that you can sing Mary had a little lamb in front of me and I’ll just die right then and there.
I went back to the shop and asked the lady whether she can send my sister a text message or not. Thank god she was nice. My sister replied back, saying that she’s about 150 meters away from me, all I had to do was to walk straight (it’s just 1 long, main road). Apparently she had to park there otherwise, she’ll block traffic on the road.
That’s fucking bullshit. Bullshit bullshit bullshit.
Guess what I did? Guess what I fucking did?
I HAD TO FUCKING WALK 150 METERS,
IN MY CURRENT STATE OF
VULNERABILITY, WITHOUT A PHONE,
WITHOUT A HANDBAG, WEARING
SKANKY CLOTHES, MY FACE IS ALL
RED, I’M TIRED, THEN ADD THE
NAUSEOUS HEAT. MY SISTER IS A
CRAZY DERANGED BASTARD.
There’s only one thing in this world that you can do to seriously piss me off.
If you want, you can go ahead and steal my handbag, steal my credit cards, my phone, my money, my wallet, my drugs, you can get me fat, make me step on dog’s poo, make me touch some animal’s genitalia, make me eat animal internal organs, heck, you can even rape me, sexually abuse me, molest me, give me a sexually-transmitted disease, mutiliate me, castrate me, whatever.
Do anything you want to do to me and I won’t complain.
As long as you don’t make me WAIT or WALK.
Don’t get me wrong. I do walk. But with the following stipulations:
a) only in temperatures of 65 degrees F (or 18 Celsius) or colder unless I’m on vacation;
b) only if I’m fully dressed up, lip gloss required
c) only if it’s 10-15 meters or less.
The most I’ll walk at any given time is 50 meters and I have to have nice music blaring on my ipod or on the background.
But walking in crap clothes, in crappy hot weather, with a crappy face?
Come on, it’s just as bad as MURDER.
Oooooo my blood boiled earlier, I wanted to strangle my fat cow bitch of a sister.
If only my mum’s cousin didn’t arrive when we got back, she’s probably in the funeral home by now, getting her makeup done.