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.