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Can O'Worms
Saturday, April 29, 2006

I forgot to mention that right after I found out about Dumaguete, John called. Now, John is someone I never wished to hear from again, not only because he was a complete fucktard to me (for one, he humiliated me on purpose in the presence of 300 people without my even knowing it) but because his idea of reconciliation was calling me up, starting the "conversation" by saying, "Let's open a can of worms, shall we?" and then talking on and on and on and on about his accomplishments and the latest Scandinavian death metal opera blah blah blahbiddy blah without letting me get a single word in. He's a charmer, that one. Fortunately, I was able to stop another scintillating monologue from happening this morning, but he did say he was going to call later. Good thing I'm on dial-up.

The John thing isn't much, really. I mean, I can put the phone down, if ever. It's just that the timing fascinated me. It's like I'm sitting here, and The Big Kahuna's poking me with a stick and giggling. If all these events were predestined, then he sure has a funny masterplan for me. Side-splitting, baby.

posted by marguerite @ 10:33 PM


I Was ThisClose to Googling the Five Stages of Acceptance

I didn’t get into Dumaguete. I found out first thing in the morning through e-mail, which probably is the worst way to find out since you suddenly have all these hours of consciousness ahead of you. It’s only natural that I felt like shit right after. I still feel weird right now, actually. Not shitty anymore, fortunately, but just really out of it. I did prepare myself for any bad news, but let’s face it, it doesn’t really work that way. In all fairness, I’m calmer than I thought I would be. I suppose it’s because all of this concerns the one thing I love to pieces, and it would be ridiculous of me to go apeshit over one mishap. I love to write. It’s probably the one thing about myself that I am dead certain of. It sucks hard that I didn’t get in. It. Sucks. Hard. But it would be moronic of me to get completely discouraged. This shouldn’t—and won’t—stop me at all.

I have to admit that this mindfuck of a summer has helped me get through this better than I had expected. All these strange, strange events piling up one after the other were bound to lend me a coping mechanism for any other Great Big Crazy that could come my way. I wouldn’t call myself conditioned, but something has definitely wrapped itself around me.

posted by marguerite @ 1:58 PM


Sexy Scars, Here I Come
Thursday, April 27, 2006

I can walk again! Or shuffle at a human pace, at least. I still had to bring my cane/killer nunchakus with me to the mall and pretend to be dependent on it so we could use the handicapped parking space, though. My grandparents can be sneaky bastards.

I left them to have my mandatory coffee-space out time and noticed a few things.

Taking off from Den’s coffee cup name post, I realized that the cashiers never get my name right, either. The version they use the most is Marjie. Call me crazy, but this isn’t exactly the most common spelling of my name. When I say “Margie,” I really don’t understand why they believe that “j” is more accurate than “g.” I don’t know anyone named Marjie. I have yet to read a story with a Marjie in it. I know a number of Margies. I’ve read of several Margies. Their misspelling my name doesn’t irk me, really (I have much bigger problems with my full name), but I just don’t get it.

Way back in high school, Marie and I used to play this game during our Friday homeleaves. The moment the coaster dropped us off at Megamall, we would start counting the number of people with red baseball caps on. We’d reach pretty high numbers, and it amazed us that just concentrating on one object can make you conscious of how common they are. Today, I played the game with canes and reached a pretty good number, too, although most of the cane-wielders were either very, very old or very, very fat. In fact, the tables to my left and right had these granddaddies with canes similar to mine. We made a cute row.

It’s rude to stare. My table was outside, and there was this guy on the sidewalk that just kept looking at my leg with disgust. I went out with no bandages on since my wounds were at that dry yet tender stage where it would be better to air them out. I freaked other people out, but they didn’t glare at me with as much contempt as that guy. There were three things I could’ve done at that moment:
a) raise my eyebrow or throw him some catty look
b) look down and pretend he doesn’t exist
c) hobble towards him, cane in the air, and scream ghetto-style, “You grossed out now, motherfucker?!! You grossed out now?!?!?!???”
I did letter b, which I now regret. Almost did a and should’ve done c.

The outgoing, scented pen-wielding teenage homosexuals are out in full force! I was first harrassed by them after the Sea Monkey-showing with Pubey Boy, and then after that with Twinkle a few days ago, and then they were at it again today. I know that there are plenty of other kids trying to sell shit or get donations from others at malls, but this particular group just fascinates me. They’re all below twenty years old, gay, and claim to be part of this self-improvement camp. It’s so seedy. I love it.

The pre-sneeze on my knee is still there. Arrpgjrpfjsdjdjipohfdihiohf.

posted by marguerite @ 3:47 PM


Satan, Take Note.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Personal Hell # 62
an itchy wound

It’s like that feeling when you’re just about to sneeze and then you don’t, only prolonged on your knee.

I’ve tried scratching the periphery of the wound, but it doesn’t really do much. This is ridiculous. I’m all tingly and not in a good way.

posted by marguerite @ 11:15 PM



Probe has given me a break to let my wounds heal. They didn’t think it was right for me to continue my work this week since it was going to be pretty hectic.

I suppose it’s okay. Though my wounds are drying up and turning into oh-so-pickable scabs, and though I’ve gotten the hang of my Super Ninja Nunchaku Cane, my right foot’s still pretty swollen. I only have less than fifty hours to complete, anyway, so I should be able to pull that off before the new school year starts. This actually gives me a chance to really bum around on my final summer vacation as a student. I really haven’t had the chance to wake up and then fall back to a guiltless sleep until this break came along.

It’s just that I’m such a goddamn workaholic. I like bumming around, but the thought of all that postponed work just nags at me. Plus, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m a little sad that I won’t be able to complete my hours along with my intern batch. They do look at me funny, but they’re still nice people. I miss our buko icedrop breaks. Oh, and I’m their dirty joke supplier! Those poor prudes! How will they liiiiiive?!!?

So I’ve been pretty much in limbo, just hobbling around, reading, writing, watching Maury Povich and taking medication. These inactive activities, paired with the fact that I live with my loving, flatulent grandparents, makes me feel like I’m in a nursing home. I gots me a hankerin’ fer some exercise, yeehaw, but I can’t do anything about it. And to add to the air of uncertainty, the Dumaguete workshop is in two weeks, and the results aren’t out yet.

So let’s see: my practicum’s on hold, I am a bowl of prunes short of becoming a granny and Dumaguete’s keeping mum. One of these has got to give. Soon. Please.

posted by marguerite @ 12:04 PM


“Soft tissues are unremarkable.”
Sunday, April 23, 2006

The hospital sent my x-rays over today. I find x-rays very pretty—the strange, interlocking shapes, the graininess, the shadows, the ghostly blue. I think I’ll use mine as placemats.

I was as paranoid in the emergency room as I was back when I had myself checked for that freaky leg paralysis last year. Every time they had me lie down on one of those cold tables, I kept on thinking that one of them would bring some very sharp object out and hack at my leg. They could do pretty much anything to me when I’m on those tables, after all. The hospital is a very dangerous—and yes, possibly kinky—place.

This probably explains why I stayed up until the wee hours to watch Saw. I think the accident changed my degree of appreciation for gore. I’m not really accident-prone (well, physical accidents, anyway), so I used to love watching violence because it was just downright amusing. I never really tried to empathize with any of the victims. It was just fun to watch them get maimed. Now, however, I think I’m beginning to appreciate the violence because I have a point of reference. It’s an ant bite compared to whatever horrific shit goes on in those films, but I think I enjoy telling myself, “Oh, see that doctor guy slicing his ankle off with a hacksaw? Imagine the pain in your ankle magnified a hundred million bazillion times. That’s why he’s screeching.”

This probably also explains why I still stayed up after Saw to watch Distraction, this sick, fascinating British game show. In the final round for that particular episode, each question correctly answered, while bringing the contestant closer to a brand new car, also merited him a brand new piercing on whichever body part the host fancied. Of course there was a nipple involved.

A lot of people have been asking me if the accident traumatized me in any way (the prize for Best Question Delivery goes to my cousin Whammy; the little bastard was absolutely thrilled to know that I couldn’t walk right). It scares me a little that it doesn’t. It was an awful, awful experience, true. And I’m extremely, incredibly, tremendously grateful to all the well-wishers. But I’m more ticked off than traumatized. And I’m only really ticked off because pain sucks hard in general and I’ve become a lot less mobile. I don’t know if some crucial tidbit hasn’t sunk in yet or if I’m really just this way, but either way, the thought scares me a little. I mean, I’m watching bloody, gory stuff on cable now because I find my ability to relate to the victims so darn enjoyable. It’s screwy and I can’t even begin to explain it.

Well, Whammy and I are off to the mall now. I think he only asked me to go with him so he could see me hobble around like an invalid in public. Funny, the things that amuse us.

posted by marguerite @ 12:48 PM


Friday, April 21, 2006

It's just my luck that my wounds are on my knee and ankle. I have no broken bones, but it feels like I do because the booboos are in such strategic places. It seems like my ankle's twisted. It seems like my kneecap's bashed in. It seems like my leg's about to fall off.

All seeming aside, my knee wound is being particularly disagreeable. (I'm looking at it right now, and it is just nasty--all gooey and bloody, like something out of a slasher movie.) And the funny thing is, the fact that it's in the process of healing itself is why it's ticking me off. The scab's forming from the outside in, so the more solid the scab gets, the tighter its grip on the exposed middle part. Each time I try to stand up, the scab part quickly clenches the raw, sticky center and my knees buckle. I've been waddling with a cane all day because of this.

Aaaaaah! I miss walking! I miss standing! I want to take my body for granted again!

posted by marguerite @ 9:33 PM


I Wanted A Real Blog Again

I only left Blogger for Livejournal a few years ago because of some traumatizing html glitch. I never wanted to move, really, but we all do stupid things. I never had as much fun with my LJs, never felt that I had written anything I was completely happy with, and missed my Blogger blog to pieces. I stuck with my LJ for the longest time, though, because I thought that I could still pull it off despite the less inviting format. I really couldn't, and it's been years.

So screw LJ. Wasted too much time writing things that, while honest, didn't feel very real. Hopefully, getting an honest-to-goodness blog again will change all that.

posted by marguerite @ 5:26 PM


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