Ein Übermodel liebt Sie (BECAUSE a supermodel loves you.): Burberry fevah

Ladies and gentlemen, fags and hags, ME.

I am a supermodel. I’m too sexy for your love. I’m too beautiful to even utter the word “ugly”. I am a narcissistic, condescending, self-centered bitch who’s so fabulous I even think it’s part of my DNA. I could be the line of demarcation between the haves and not haves. I speak English, Filipino, and two other regional dialects fluidly I could go and talk for days without water. I am a superficial, wretched, backstabbing monster you wished you never knew. I am so f*cking rich I own forty percent of Trump Holdings. Every time we meet for dinner I have caviar, crepes, and Fettucine in balsamic vinegar while Paris Hilton gorges on sizzling sisig, paella, and RC Cola. I am a nature lover I even water my Hibiscus plants with Evian, and as an animal lover I love furs and feathers—be it raccoon, brown bear fur, or ostrich feather, and I also dig ivory and cosmetics tested on animals. I am so unique I even had a cloned brother who is so gay he even sweats pink glitter, but he died of poisoning, he swallowed two of my three Chanel lip shimmers, and drank my Maybelline mascara fluid. I am Bryanboy’s lighter-than-evil imaginary and delusional twin sister, and I am a menace to our community. I live in a third world country where living life like a goddess, whipping beautiful boys, and shopping like there’s no tomorrow is a sin. I can’t even fathom why I mingle with some of the glamorous people that graced the earth when I’m one fourth-fairy, one-fourth-goddess, and half-humanoid who feed on Credit cards, profound thoughts, and Louis Vuittons. I could be the monstrous fag who can give you sleepless nights because once provoked—with some high-sugar soda, comfy flats, and an unlimited budget—I can shop till the shopping havens of the earth drop. Above all, I could be all this pretentious, pitiful bastard, but I can also be the simple little lamb Mary always had. Besides, after all the hustle and bustle of my amazing world are the judgment and thoughts I need to keep at the end of the day (I guess I can still have a relaxing foot scrub, another pair of fetish shoes, and a Starbucks Caramel Macchiato.) Fuck. Millions are starving on this earth and i'm still a fashionista. a hard-headed, cold-hearted bitch who can step on anyone on the way. Fuck. 2/25/2007

Sunday, February 25, 2007

Burberry fevah

i just got another heirloom from my couture-infested grandmother and you know what she gave me? a vintage Burberrys pouch! omg! and i already got one from my Mom, a sort of squarish one in epi leather, and i got this, like a couple a years back. Oh, i just love burberry. something feels Londony about the vertical and horizontal lines on its signature print,, i can feel its romantic curves as i cuddle it in my moisturized palms and whoa, it can definitely dress up any of my boring outfits (as if i have one!? haha). I am so into vintage labels right now. I got a green, Louis Vuitton alma bag in epi leather also, and i bought it for a couple of grans from a vintage shop. good find, huh.

well, there's more to say about these bags, i tell you. they tell history. politics. environmental issues of their time. sociological aspects of interpersonal human relations, whatever that means. if it's vintage, it tells a piece of somebody else's past. and i don't care that much, really. all i know is that i'm gonna have it in my walk-in closet, and will be an integral part of it in the years to come. It's Burberry for chrissake!

my next hunt? i'm gonna hunt for a Prada bag. i'll look inide my grandma's trasure chest, a 'baul' of some sorts, that opens the gateway to a world that's filled with opulence, elegance, and power that only she can pull off in her time!

Like what she would always say, "be thin and fabulous. everything else follows."