Thursday, May 21, 2009
posted by marguerite @ 12:47 AM
Aba Ginanahang Magblog Ang Gaga
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Being that my daily commute has swerved abruptly from EDSA to its far more sinister cousin Commonwealth in recent weeks, I have suddenly become privy to far more crimes and near-death experiences. (The avenue, in fact, has always been cloaked in Creepy ever since I could remember, and belongs to my personal list of Inexplicably Evil-Seeming Places, which also includes the other side of Shaw Boulevard [yung may PureGold], Quiapo, and most exclusive schools.)
There is a lot I can gripe about Commonwealth--St. Peter's Parish a.k.a. Rasputin's Playpen, Litex a.k.a. The Most Literal Shithole in Quezon City, the profusion of goat corpses and budget funerarias--but I just wanted to point an unwarranted and accusing finger at Those Morons Who Run Across Commonwealth.
You know how you can pick a Filipino jaywalker/runner out from a frantic, multinational, lawbreaking crowd? Find the asshole with a smile on his face.
Drives me nuts, these grins--apologetic but not really, a show of pure, twinkly happiness at the thought of cheating death in the most idiotic way possible. I used to think some of them were actually grimaces, as if the jaywalker/runner suddenly realized mid-half-assed-stunt that he should, uh, want to live. But the constancy of these Morons have ascertained that these expressions are, in fact, displays of true glee.
I know this is a pretty hackneyed observation in the end. Yes, yes, Filipinos laugh at and through their hardships. Yes, yes, Filipinos laugh in the face of corruption and disease and squalor because they don't really know what fuck-else to do. Yes, yes, (more of my middle-class brat whining). But I just wanted to point it out because, well, I am just fulfilling my role as humble cyberspace filler like most everyone else is. I am just helping make the world go 'round as it has deigned itself to. I am not a kibitzer; I am the fucking She-Ra of the status quo. God I'm hopeless. Let's all hold hands.
posted by marguerite @ 3:36 PM
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
It's been difficult to speak up these past few weeks, most especially because it has been exactly a year since my Iyas
Workshop/Bakasyon Grande Extravaganza and the subsequent rebooting of pretty much my whole life. My gratitude towards that month, its high-jinks, and its motley crew of newfound friends + 1 man whore is staggering, and I have no idea how to commemorate this time without sapping it of its mojo, so, no. Senting-senti na ako offline.
It is also difficult to speak of my first ever company outing with the BlackInk folk in Baguio because the entry would be rife with my usual Baguio banter (ube ukay ube lamig misskonamakiling ube ube lamig), but it was, of course, a naturally good vacation, Baguio being one of my default Places of Happiness.
So what gives? What must I blog about save for Tunay na Lalake
, the sexiest (and most male, so male the stench of sweat and Tiger Balm and sisig and the faintest zing of shit will push through your monitor like a needy [and respectably proportioned] cock) blog in the universe?
Not much. I'm just waiting for AI. It's rock week today. I'm rooting for the tranny.
posted by marguerite @ 3:38 PM
I'm Very Chatty
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
+ I'm looking for a 1-bedroom/studio type apartment in the QC-Diliman area for around 5K. Help a homeless harlot out!
+ My short story "Hunters" is out in this week's Philippines Free Press
+ That is all.
posted by marguerite @ 7:59 AM
Friday, March 20, 2009
In my long-standing tradition to rehash piddling opinions about me, I would just like to announce that a tricycle ride and my mortality have, yet again, held hands pa-sway-sway pa. Kind of. Some people are convinced that I’m going to die in either a taxi or a tricycle and, considering that their opinions are based on my eerily consistent ability to be physically injured/verbally molested by drivers of said vehicles, I’m sure as hell convinced of that, too. Last night added a new dimension to my fatal affair with The Commute. Kind of.
I hit my head fucking hard on a trike’s ceiling (?) yesterday. Was on my way to EDSA Central when the driver decided to take a speed bump on like a motocross moron. Just made the trike fly in the air ‘cause it’s like, you know, astig. Because I do not normally ride tricycles with 50-pound bags of grain tied to my ankles, my head slammed against the trike’s ceiling (?) so hard, I felt an intense rush of blood to the head not unlike the one you get when you fall down a flight of stairs. There was a bit of smarting and wooziness for a while, but it died down after a few minutes. No bumps, no bleeding.
So what’s the deal? Why have I suddenly resurrected my blogging habit after a month of happy silence to do some long-winded narrative on an untog? And why can’t I just get straight to the point in any of my entries instead of paving my hell-bound road with adjectives?
The latter, I don’t want to answer ‘cause it’s like, you know, astig. As for the former, well, ever since Natasha Richardson’s freakish untog of a death, I would like to think that I have every right to be paranoid. It’s been almost 24 hours since the big, bad bump, though, and my normal bodily functions have yet to be hindered by any mouth-frothing or speaking in tongues. In fact, seconds after the bump, I started asking myself standard me-specific questions such as Quick! Where are you headed tonight?
and Quick! What’s your password to the company e-mail?
and Quick! Remember that thwarted Chuck Bass sex dream a few nights ago? Where did you almost do it?
, and I think I answered them quickly and accurately enough. And I have been able to get my ass to the office all the same today. It’s just that I still think there’s the eensy weensy chance that medics will find me face down in my plate of Mexican later tonight.
Let’s just hope for the best. Or, fine, at least I will. But just in case I do conk out for real, it was Trike # 43, part of the fleet of lime green trikes allowed to bring Kapitolyans to EDSA Central, and it happened yesterday, March 19, at around 5:10 in the afternoon. And the driver? Well, I never really got a good look at him. I don’t have time to look people in the eye when I’m busy formulating links between myself and sufficiently successful dead actresses as blog content. Timely
blog content. I should get a medal.
posted by marguerite @ 12:43 PM
Friday, February 20, 2009
There’s this scene in the film version of The Secret Garden
(which, incidentally, happens to be a novel I’d read a gabizijillion times when I was a kid; isolated brats do like to read about themselves) wherein Colin, the snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad, is immersed in a tub of ice cubes. I used to love watching that scene, because it made me feel lucky not to be a snotty Victorian hypochondriac lad trapped in a manor in the nippy moors and, instead, be a snotty Ramos brownout-era wench trapped in a cramped compound in the scorching tropics. An ice bath, therefore, would actually be something I could look forward to, would be something that would not cause intense physical and psychological backlash but, on the other hand, would be just damn good.
Why am I writing this? Because I am no fan of summer, and it is summer, and it is HOT, Satan’s armpit HOT, and I have not had a bath since yesterday, and I am most likely teeming with gabizijillions of tiny Warm Gremlins of Filth, and oh god oh god a bath a bath a bath an ice cube bath with soap and shampoo and an indefinite stretch of evening please god help me it’s so so WARM
posted by marguerite @ 11:13 AM
The Heck of It
Friday, February 13, 2009
+ Found myself at the Martin-Pops concert at Araneta with D and his folks at the last-est minute. Went on major blackout when the uncouple brought out their "now vows" and read them out loud to each other. All in all, have decided that Pops has low self esteem, and that Martin is a douche. But I'm sure most people already know that; I'm just very behind on my OPM larnin'.
+ Went to an honest-to-goodness tgsk tgsk club all dolled up and shit with D and his brothers. All tgsk tgsk club stereotypes were fulfilled: long, antsy lines, hordes of hipons, unabashed grinding and sucking face.
And the funny thing is -- I think I get it.
That was the best night of Empty I've had in a while. Of course, you can
take the kupaw out of Kupawland, but you can't take Kupawland out of the kupaw.
+ My short story "Cross" is out in the latest issue of Story Philippines
posted by marguerite @ 7:42 AM