- Fashion Blog
6:35 pm

The ugly duckling evolved to a swan

11/02/2005, Uncategorized

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.

Exhibit A

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.


Exhibit B

WhoreA 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.


Exhibit C

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.

4:44 pm

Giving British gay/bi boys an instant sex change.

04/02/2005, Uncategorized

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 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, 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:


HembersI 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.

4:40 pm

My 18th (+5) Birthday Party

24/01/2005, Life

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

to womanhood.

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.

Thailadyboy 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. 








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?

6:17 am

Knackered to the bone. I hate Spaniards.

23/01/2005, Clubbing

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.

Oh yes.

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?

Oh well.

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!





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.

9:00 pm

A boring life. Why can’t I be Melania Knauss with a young, non-fat Donald Trump sans bad, carrot hair.

21/01/2005, Life

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.

Fedex_logo 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?

6:53 am

“gud mrng baby. im sori abt lst nyt”

20/01/2005, Uncategorized

It’s 6 in the morning and I just had a row with my mom about an hour ago.

My younger brother’s new (and extremely loud with a nasty ring tone) cellphone has been nagging for the past 2 hours. I swear I heard the most repulsive sounds at this time of the day — if you think verbal diarrhea is bad, his cell phone’s tones are leprosy of the ears. 2 hours of consecutive ringing of all sorts: one for his alarm, a ring tone for callers, then another one for text messages. And boy… no amount of alarm can wake the bitch up. He’s sleeps like a frozen can of lard in the middle of a blizzard.

Since he won’t get out of bed and his mobile ain’t on silent, my mom asked me to go to his room and grab his damn phone to see who’s been calling and sending him text messages. With his phone on my hand, I went to the kitchen and read the message out to my mom.

"gud mrng baby. im sori abt lst nyt –JC"

A couple of minutes later, he got up and went to the kitchen. My mom asked him who’s the whore that’s calling/txting him at this time of the day. The fat cow ignored her. In a span of 15 minutes, my mom asked him the same question and he didn’t respond. The fat cow turned into a silent lamb. My mom got fed up and went back to her coffee.

Me: "Ma, why are you tolerating this sort of attitude? Go ask the rude bastard child who it was. It was nasty of him to ignore you like that."

Mom: "Will you please stop giving me a sermon at this time of the day, Bryan? It’s too early and I don’t want to hear any word from you."

I swear I wanted to pull her hair but I won’t cause she’s my mother. I kept quiet from that point on focused on my breakfast. I don’t blame her, cause before my younger brother’s phone ruined our breakfast… and before I asked her that "why are you.." question, I was giving her a sermon on how she should stop feeding us cholesterol-infested fried stuff in the morning because we’re all not getting any younger.

I suspect that my obese, wart-necked, the sole family last name torch-bearer sibling has a girlfriend. Probably one of those breast-feeding-in-front-of-a-webcam, nasty slut whoring i’ll-show-you-my-tits-for-a-top-up-credit-on-my-prepaid-mobile-phone mother fuckers he picked up online, just what my sister said when asked me what the fight was all about.

Yesterday was a semi-productive day. I had my weekly glycopeel cleaning extraction facial + power peel session done. I’m planning to go out this weekend with my friends and I want to have a clear and flawless face. As long as it’s not bukkake, I love facials. There’s this undescribable feeling of satisfaction after having someone extract all the white & black heads, pore grime etc. from your face. It keeps me pimple-free. Can you imagine? I’m turning 18 (+5)  years old in about 2 months. It’s completely unacceptable for me to have pimples cause, at least in most cultures, I’m no longer a minor.

I also don’t like those "relaxing" facials at spas where they lather your face up with an abundance of fruit-smelling "herbal" creams. They won’t do you any good, trust me.

If you want a good facial, get the hardcore extraction ones.

The ones where they’ll put chemicals, the ones where they’ll prick your pores to pick those disgusting pore-blocking maggots… the ones where they’ll inject cortisone into micro, fetus zits so they’re abort abort aborted before they even give birth to your face.

Peeling/Microdermabrasion sessions are good for your face, too. You’ll need to get rid of all dead skin so you’ll have that healthy, natural glow.

The downside of having facials/peels is the fact that you’ll have a red face for the next 24 to 36 hours. It depends on your skin sensitivity. You also can’t wash your face until the following morning. After that, you’ll have fucktastically brilliant skin. A face that you’ll be proud of, at least until your next facial.

Trust me, I’m not vain. It’s just that I simply don’t feel confident if I know I’ve got all these white and black heads, zits and such on my face. I couldn’t possibly face anyone if I knew I have this pus-erupting volcano on my cheek, nose or wherever.

I thought I’d share 3 pic of me that my sister took at my aesthetician’s clinic. God I look like a battered wife cadaver who got slapped by a deadbeat husband in the face. My face is all red from the facial abuse I got. But… no pain, no gain.


Click the thumbnails to view the supersized, extra large version.

After the facial stuff, I had a haircut with my stylist at Franck Provost, then did a little bit of shopping — bought 2 jackets, a top, some Obagi foaming gel and a carton of marlboros.

1:04 am

Protected: I shot the pervert, but I did not shoot the cutie.

17/01/2005, Gangbang

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

4:07 pm

Chaos Couture – Snap Out of It

07/01/2005, Fashion

I’m in love. New Versace bags are in, fresh from the boat … er… gondola from Italy.

I’m not a big Versace fan. Why? It’s just not me. I’m more of a Dior bitch.

Versace’s for prostitutes and mafia wives really.

But this one is an exception. Even the name is fucking brilliant: Chaos Couture Snap Out of It. US$1,545 @

It’s gorgeous. I want it. It’s screaming my name. I haven’t seen Versace bags THIS gorgeous in a long time.This one will definitely go to my to-do lists. Think, think, think. Snap, snap, snap.


I’ll think about it. God I’m so tempted to buy this one. Think how gorgeous it is — it looks soo nice with a plain black or white tank top, some fitted jeans, some black flip flops and some Chanel glasses. Gorgeous. So so gorgeous! My account will nag at me though. Speaking of which, I spoke to her earlier this afternoon and talked about filling taxes early this year. She also wants all my receipts from last year’s expenses. Thank god I run my own business and not employed, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to deduct my shopping as "representation expenses" and "gifts".

Welcome to the Philippines though. As if you’d get audited by the taxing authorities. Even politicians underdeclare their incomes. At least I don’t.

This is the only country in the world, I guess, where you can classify US$4,000 sprees at Chanel as "charitable donations/deductions".

Hey… I’d take Chanel, or in this case, Versace, as a donation to my wardrobe. It suffered extreme hassle, emotional distress, pain and mental suffering from the tsunami. I just hope I get a piece of that US$1Billion dollar pie the United Nations is talking about.

6:33 pm

Call of the wild and the US$1.03 Monkey

06/01/2005, Fat

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

I admit. I’m not the type of person who usually watches TV. I refuse to have a TV set in my room. I’m so anti-TV. I like to shelter myself from the evils of cheap, commercial culture for the masses. The television is for people who cannot entertain themselves by doing "normal" stuff. The only time I’ll make an exception is whenever I watch a movie (DVD) or when Paris Hilton is there (that’s not watching TV… that’s getting education) or whenever I watch CNN.

For the past 3 weeks now, I found myself watching the TV more and more. Normal TV shows for normal people. I’d say I now spend around 1 hour a day watching TV. Although yes, you will never see me sit in front of the damn set for 30 consecutive minutes, I’ve discovered all sorts of shows… and commercials.

There’s this one commercial that has been all over the place – McDonald’s Beef Prosperity chu chu thing. I swear it’s on every 5 minutes whatsoever.

I have a love-hate relationship with McD’s. Generally, I despise em. After all, McD’s is to blame for all the god-forsakened fat people all over the world. McD’s is pretty much the mecca of all fatdommeccas: this is where the word FAT got invented.

Anyway, look at Asians as an example.

For years, we have been stereotyped as the chinky-eyed, short shorty midget-y, submissive, fuckwhoring bitches to dirty-old-hairy-fat-white-trash gorillas.

While Asian females are fantasized upon as real,

live, human sex toys, Asian males fall into 2

categories: either you’re a kung-fu flighting, black-

belted, ching chong man ala <insert Asian action

person here> or the short yet lanky straight-A

bookish nerd.

But ever since McDonald’s invaded the continent decades ago, things have changed.

Whenever I go out to the scene these days, there’s an abundance of tall Asian kids. I’m just as tall as my brother, and I’m 5’9. He’s 15 years old and still growing… and no doubt he’ll be taller than me. The heights 5’11 and 6-foot is starting to become extremely common. Fine… perhaps the odd 6-foot-7 male types are still rare here but everyone seems to be tall these days… particularly the young ones. Heck, I even know 2 girls who are at least 6-foot tall. And yes, they’re Filipino natives… originally from rural areas. 

And there’s only one reason to blame. McDonald’s.

Enough rambling.

So yeah — this Beef Prosperity commercial made a huge impact in this household. Everyone had seen it for god knows how many times. The total airtime it had in our heads is probably longer than a 180-minute movie.

Early this afternoon, my mom, my sister and I had enough. Right after watching yet another commercial, we all had this desperate craving churning in our stomachs.

We didn’t even bothered to beautify ourselves. Usually, we’ll never step out of the house gate wearing house clothes. It is a must for us to look our very best even if we are stepping out a mere 2 inches outside the house. Today was an exception — to hell with taking a shower, spending 2 hours on what to wear, etc… we just have to taste the nectar of that that well-publicized Beef Prosperity thing.

Wearing plain house clothes and armed with the Visa card, all three of us asked the driver to bring us to the nearest McDonald’s, about 5 minutes from our house.

My mom stayed inside the car while my sister and I went in. I swear to god, going inside the doors of McDonald’s was like entering the gates of hell… errr a frying pan. My brain was filled with mental images of lard and frying oil.

I had intense hallucinations that I’m turning into the Nutty Professor, with the Ronald McDonald’s mascot giving me the fuck-you finger.

As we arrived to the counter, we placed our order.

* 8 Beef Prosperity Burgers (2 for me, 2 for my mom, 1 for my sister Grace, 1 for my brother, 1 for my other sister Genie and 1 for our driver)
* 1 Double Cheese Burger (for my sister Grace)
* 2 Large French Fries (for Grace and me)
* 1 Large Twister Fries (for Grace and my mom)
* 2 x 6-piece Chicken Nuggets (for Genie and me)
* 1 Oreo McFlurry (for Grace and my mom)
* 1 Large Coke

The verdict: Beef Prosperity burger was a complete disappointment. It had bad odour.

As soon as you unwrap the thing, it reeked of

this onion smell (because of the onions), similar to

sweaty, filthy armpits of Eurotrash people.

Also, there was way too much pepper on it. Beef prosperity indeed — it was prosperous with spices you’d think it came all the way from India from the Tsunami.


I know I’m not supposed to be making sensitive jokes after 100,000+ people died but seriously, they should’ve named this the Tsunami Leftover. The burger must be one of those things that reached our shores.

The only good thing that came out of this mini trip to McDonald’s was the fact that I bought one of those happy-meal child toys for $1.03 (58 Filipino bucks).

My sister and I have been looking for big, fuzzy cellphone charms that you can hook at the bottom of your cellphone. Currently, I have a small cat thing I got from a flea market. I used to have the $75 Gucci handbag cellphone charm but I lost it in Moscow. And now I want a bigger, fuzzy doll-like cellphone charm.

Both of us fell in love with the mini stuffed toys the first time we saw them at the counter. There’s about 18 of them I think. I got the gold monkey while my sister bought the pink pig. They’re kinda cute-ish. But alas, they didn’t fit my phone.


11:59 pm

Mini shopping spree

05/01/2005, Health

Oh good lord. I am so careless sometimes.

My dad wanted to print some documents so he went to my room to pick up the docs on my printer. While he’s waiting for the paperwork to print, he saw my blog in its full glory on my browser window. He read some of the entries… I’m sure not all, cause I was gone for a few minutes. When I came back, he said how I’m very bitchy and I’m wicked.

Eeew eeew eeew. I’m not bitchy. I’m nice and sweet.

I can’t believe how he can just read my blog like that. I mean, it’s not displayed on my monitor cause I have other browser windows opened but he just fiddled around and opened my blog.

I just hope he’s tipsy enough not to remember the URL. The last thing I want is my dad to be reading my journal.

I’m 18 (+4) years old for god’s sake.

Back to business.

I had my regular glycopeel cleaning and facial done earlier today, as well as a long-overdue power peel session. God knows what kind of germs and how many dead skin cells I have on my face, and I haven’t had a facial since I arrived.

The receptiobitch at my doctor’s office was such a liar.

My appointment is at 4PM so me and my sister left the house early. At around 4:05, we were trying to find a place to park. Little miss Pinocchia called to follow up and asked "It’s already 4:25PM, do you still want to keep your appointment?". Then my sister said, "Yes, we’re already here in the parking lot, we’re just looking for a place to park."

When I looked at my watch, it was around 4:05 or 4:06. When my sister looked at hers, it was 4:06. When she looked at her phone, it was 4:08. When I looked at the car, it was 4:10.

Me and my sis quickly rushed to the clinic, which was about a 1 minute walk from the parking lot. When we arrived, we said we were there for our appointments and my sister looked at the BIG CLOCK on the wall. It said 4:10.

Vicky_picClearly this receptiobitch was lying scum. 4:25PM my arse. She must be newly-hired because the previous receptiobitch has been gone for some time and I assume she got fired. Besides, it is perfectly acceptable for us to be late, as long as it’s no later than 15 minutes… actually, who cares. It is perfectly acceptable for us to be late. Period. Ok… well.. maybe within reason. The head honcho (owner) is, Dr. Vicky Belo, who is my sister’s best friend’s aunt. We can go to all of her clinics whenever we want, ask whatever we want and get everything that we want. She didn’t call me her best-dressed patient for nothing. Whatever watch or clock we use (as long as it’s not the car’s cause it’s fucked up), we were still in the time frame.


Since we were at the mall, I needed to do some shopping. Nothing major, just a quick trip to flex my card. I bought a new alarm clock because I’ve developed resistance to my Nokia. I also bought some cigarettes, 2 books by Sophie Kinsella: Shopaholic & Sister… and Shopaholic Ties the Knot, 2 belts, 2 plain black t-shirts, 1 plain white t-shirt and 2 sleeveless tops (same style, different colors) at Topshop. Boy I love Topshop. It’s soo dirt cheap it’s not even funny. Topshop is the ultimate in cheap clothing, like GAP. You can have racks and racks of their clothes, use them once, twice or thrice and donate them to charity. You can never have enough of their stuff. Really. Go to Top Shop.