Ein Übermodel liebt Sie (BECAUSE a supermodel loves you.): drugsexviolence/faithhopelove

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

Monday, June 18, 2007

drugsexviolence/faithhopelove

I wonder why feature writing invites so much the journalistic ego in me. it could be because i religiously drool on the fabulous articles they print on Preview, Italian Vogue, and Jane--guess that's where i'm headed to in the future. Love the clothes, love the bags, love the reads, love the life--

(--And for chrissake Gemma Ward's cover shoot for Vogue in February smells like a cup of macchiato and Dunhill lights-delicious. and addicting.!)

oh, and by the way,I live in a repressed realm of fantasy where wearing leg warmers over a pair of Cole flipflops sound silly to some, where my Louis Vuitton speedy bag (which i got as a present) is cursed by everyone because it is overpriced (and because thousands die of hunger, no?)). i live in a third world country where tank tops and superbly underhauled denims dominate my closet instead of chinchilla coats and Lanvin cone heels. In other words, this isn't fashionville for me nor it is pleasantville to some, some call it punishment, i call it obscurity.

and so there i was (backstage, wardrobe area, for the awoo nyt 2007 sponsored by the SSG) standing like a bullfighter as i play my role as the wardrobe master. my time to shine, the cliche goes. after weeks of concept research, collection and selection, and fitting, it all comes down to this big show. and i can't wait to show the underrepresented fashionistas in the audience my thing.

(this reminds me of a backstage peek at Chanel's Cruise Collection runway show for 2008. Karl Lagerfeld screams like a little-boy-who-wished-he's-an-adult, "shoes! hair! make-up!go!go! everybody line up!")

and i wonder how people, particularly Filipinos, could take for granted all the efforts that were put into making a cohesive fashion collection for all the consumers to, of course, consume. i wonder why they keep on babbling that fashion is evil when fashion is within, amongst, and in our DNA. well, hey, good and evil is within us nay?

i definitely live in a pathetic world. and i couldn't be more pathetic. it's long overdue.

a couple of years back i got the stint to study in a London-based Italian Fashion School, well, it sounds cool alright, but apparently they only have Master programmes, and for chrissake i'm an UNDERGRADUATE with unsigned, unsealed, undelivered units all ova my face. so i decided to finish this they-call-it-lucrative degree in English Linguistics here in the province and head back to Manila to pursue a course in er, uhm, Fashion Merchandising and design. (how could the Ateneo folks push me to write about hybridism, nativism, phonology and semantics when all i wanted to do all my life is make clothes, shop, make beautiful things, shop, write beautiful, uber posse happy things, and shop??!-- i rest my case.) My last resort? nothing. push this, push that till the juice splurges outta me.

so you know what's running in my mind right now? that this flare will fuel much of what i needed to become a writer--a fashion feature writer! more! more! more!

so enough with the drug/sex/violence/faith/hope/love bashing part and i'm now ready to look under the skirts of the world's most glamorous industry-le mode. le fashion.