I'm Going to Regret This
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Okay, I’ll say it. I wish I had never heard of that particular curse for that particular award. If I hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t be this bogged down by the fact that I chuck out all kinds of text for a living now. In fact, I wouldn’t even see it that way. I would be way more grateful that I got a nice position this early, a position that says my four years in Comm weren’t for naught, that puts me in the company of intelligent, talented people who are just the right kind of strange, that insists on wit despite this country’s penchant for no-brainer design, that moves me to write all these good things about it in this stupid entry even if it’s just my third day.
If I hadn’t heard of that curse, I wouldn’t be this defensive cheeseball, damn it. I wouldn’t work on my short story with such repentance, staring at my Word document in the hopes that my devotion to it seeps through the fucking LCD. I shouldn’t. It’s wrong and I know that it’s wrong. I know that I should just quit whining about this, that I should be glad, at the very least, to have kept myself from complacency. And I know I’m embarrassing myself with this blog entry. I sound like a moron, and the fact that I just said that I sound like a moron will assure anyone who reads this that I am one. And the fact that I said that anyone who reads this (ad nauseam). Welcome, welcome, rolling eyes.
I just need to get rid of this paranoia, that’s all. Stupid curse, screwing up my peace of mind.
Okay. I’ll shut up and live my life now.
posted by marguerite @ 10:37 PM
Mein Kampf: Walking Cliche Edition
Friday, April 27, 2007
I'm not writing this from some prison, though, because I don't see my new copywriting stint as an incarceration. I like wordplay no matter how inane the final output. Even if it was for that real estate thing I had been working on all day today. Sieg Heil, Grammar Nazis!
I may have been complaining a lot about having my brain wrung dry, but I really do like my job. I have the license to pounce on any grammatical flub that comes my way, for one. Anyone I've gone apeshit on for their tense misuse will see my point here.
But I am paranoid that working with words for around 8 hours each day will breed a distaste for them. I know it's only been Day 2 of Margie the Makati Ho, but I have been worried, pushing me to make sure that I write something that wasn't copy even if my body was about to crash. I have to maintain good distance between work and the one thing I am dead certain I love. I don't want to end up like another one of those people who only used to write back in college, who could no longer see the difference between writing what he wants and writing what is asked of him. I really, really, really don't. Really, really, really, really don't. Because I would like to think that I know who I am becoming, and it won't be some voiceless fuck.
Though I sure am a cheesy one.
posted by marguerite @ 10:40 PM
I'm A Big Girl Now
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Ayaaaaaan! May trabaho na akoooooo! Shaddaaaaaaaap!
I will no longer have to face those stupid so-may-trabaho-ka-nas
with the same sense of shittiness. Not that I didn’t like waking up at one in the afternoon and wandering the city with the purest abandon, but it feels good to have this Magnet of Duty to pull my days together. That’s what matters to me the most, actually, this concrete chance at productivity. The cash and the license to shut those Askers of The Question up are way secondary right now.
Thanks to Wench Eigenmann
’s referral, I got a job at B+C Design as a junior copywriter. Nice little graphic design firm with people I know I can jive with and a philosophy I am partial to. And you can smoke in the pantry. And
it’s near the MRT. Was interviewed yesterday, got the go-signal a few hours after and will be briefed on Thursday. It’s all pretty fast, but then again, I have no reason to delay anything. I am a bit wary of being a fresh graduate and having no really really real work experience, but I’ll do all I can. I would like to think that I’m not an idiot in certain respects, that I’ll stop groping around in the dark soon enough.
And speaking of impending adult-dom, I got my cedula this afternoon. “Cedula” has always seemed like a dirty word to me, with the usual chained-to-the-government sentiment it connotes. Picking it up took all of five minutes. All this grown-up business is introducing itself at a pace much quicker than I thought, entering my system like a nervous tick. But that’s all fine with me. I happen to like epilepsy.
I’m such a fucking greenhorn.
posted by marguerite @ 6:09 PM
Sunday, April 22, 2007
It’s my last night of house-sitting. Whammy, Killer Juancho and the Evil Yaya are sound asleep. The only one awake besides me is Thumper, the last surviving cat among Missus Twink’s trio of grey fluff. I’m still not sure how the other two died, although I am glad that Taboo was one of them because that thing used to just sit and stare at me in that classic I know what kind of person you are, so shame on you, shame, shame, you sad, sad little human
way common among pure-breeds. Thumper’s much nicer to me. But maybe it’s because his friends have left him for The Great Litter Box Beyond and he doesn’t have much else to do.
Carl came over a little while ago. We went off to Jay-J’s (or J-Jay’s, the spelling’s unnerving either way) for sustenance, and I had this halo-halo that made my tummy very, very wonky afterwards. To recompense Carl for continuing our conversation with a bathroom door between us, I later on showed him a video of myself from a few years back. Back when I was 60 lbs. heavier. I guess “horrified” is the best word to describe Carl’s reaction to the first few seconds of the viddy. “Shocked” or “alarmed” just can’t cover the level of distress and revulsion on his face. It was like he was watching someone being gutted alive. And then
he started giggling. And continued giggling. And would not stop giggling. And played the video all over again.
So for those who think I’ve been exaggerating about my weight loss, riding on this decade’s hysteria over calories and carbs, ask Carl about the video. He’ll go into it after his laughter subsides.
There. Bored myself to a sufficient sleepiness. Good night, good night, good night.
posted by marguerite @ 3:41 AM
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
My escape plans have increased in frequency lately. Case in point: I am here with Cousin Whammy at the Very Intelligent Couple’s place for a few days of house-sitting. Besides providing extra human presence in the house, we are also obliged to play videogames with Killer Juancho, the VIC’s bloodthirsty little boy. On the whole, however, all we really have to do is just be here to keep the house from getting too sad. Anything for a change of scenery, I suppose.
Also went with Pubey Boy, my brother in all things dastardly and bastardly, to the screening of this Bloc Party documentary last night. The documentary was the typical concert footage interspersed with interviews deal, and there was this one part that cracked me up a bit:KELE OKEREKE, lead vocals, sits on an old couch with the rest of his bandmates, staring at the ceiling in the languor expected of him.DUMBASS AMERICAN JOURNALIST(off-camera)I couldn’t help but notice that you sound British when you sing.Kele’s eyes slowly roll down to stare at Dumbass American Journalist, and the expression on his face grows more and more incredulous as the seconds pass.KELEI sound British when I talk.
Humor me here. I have a house to sit.
The screening was, of course, Hipster Central. Asymmetrical, one-eye peek-a-boo haircuts for the boys, pink lace-fringed, skull-print skirts for the girls, thick, black-framed glasses for all for all for all. And headphones. So many, many headphones. If I had a peso for every blasé look in that place.
Dylan, that cunt from Jack TV, was there, too. No amount of arm tats can save you from pretense, my dear.
(Whammy just interrupted me from blogging, asking if the girdle he lent me is making my tummy sweat enough. It is not. I never said I wasn’t a victim, too. I’m just as contrived as everyone else, dallying in this off-kilter parade the city puts on. I just can’t wear pink lace for shit.)
My point is that I craved all this diversion in the first place. I’ve been very angry at myself for the past two weeks, and all I need are those little chances to simmer down. This affected cunt needs to get ‘erself some of that there affeckshun, too, yeehaw. Even from the strange embrace of an empty house.
posted by marguerite @ 5:32 PM
Again, The Girl in the Dirty Shirt
Friday, April 13, 2007
It’s April 13! Yay! Yay! Boys and girls, do you know what that means?!??!!?!?
Syempre hindi diba. Ako lang naman ‘to, e.
But still! It’s Oasis Day: Year 12! HAPPY HAPPY OASIS DAY, EVERYBODY!
Mini-Oasis Day Primer: On this day 12 years ago, my family and I were heading back to Manila from Baguio, and I was getting all nauseous and whiny in the backseat of the van. My mom handed me my grab-bag of cassettes to shut me up, and the album I pulled out was Oasis’ (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
. By the time I was listening to “Cast No Shadow,” it hit me that Oasis was going to be My Favorite Band in the Whole Wide Universe. 12 years later, these Mancunians still are. Granted that Oasis’ albums have gotten worse and I’ve come to obsess over many other bands and their own great music, but they will forever have a place in my puny liddle heart.
Hence the annual personal holiday, which I've never ever forgotten to observe. I usually just celebrate Oasis Day listening to all their albums and b-sides, watching their concert DVDs, reading magazine articles that feature them, browsing through their unauthorized bio books, plodding around the house in my Oasis logo sleep-shirt, and man do I sound pathetic.
But I don’t caaaaaaare! It’s Oasis Daaaaaaaaay! Yeheeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And it’s Friday the 13th, too. Ooga booga.
posted by marguerite @ 12:26 AM
To The Man Who Helped Make Booksales The Best Places on Earth
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Kurt Vonnegut died a couple of days ago
, and I’m sure there are many R.I.P. blog entries already out there, and many more to be posted along with Googled photos. It was strange since a few of us had just been adoring his work last Monday in a discussion of our top five favorite fictionists. Made for a nice little eulogy, I guess, although one unbeknownst to us at the time.
I don’t think I can pull off gushing about recently-dead greats, so I’ll just post my favorite short piece of his, which is actually one of my favorite stories by anyone, dead, alive or in hiding. A simple story, and one that has that brand of menace I aspire for. Harrison Bergeron
Tomorrow is my annual Oasis Day, now on its 12th year. Can’t wait to get all mad for it. Yeheyyeheyyehey.
posted by marguerite @ 7:12 PM
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
+ Me and the manwhores Monday night. Kael’s face is all goofy in that photo due to a head injuryahahahahaha.
+ Went to Botin’s wake before that with a few ViCe. Bigs pointed out that the carpet his casket was on was in leopard print.
+ The classic “Put 12 Things in a Box to Show Someone Who You Are” meme:
1) my sodatab bracelet
2) an Empire Records
3) a copy of Art Spiegelman's Maus
4) a pint of pure caramel
5) a soft pack of Marlboro Menthols
6) a copy of Stephen Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower
7) a print-out of Daniel Orozco’s “Orientation”
8) my broken Discman, Rahner
9) my cassette of Oasis’ Definitely Maybe
10) Electro the SLR
11) a pair of jeans from high school (torn at the edges, ginormous)
12) my glasses
+ Okay, that's it. I am never walking the entirety of Ortigas ever again unless I can afford to sleep the rest of the day off. Bone-tired, babies.
posted by marguerite @ 9:27 PM
No Barge No
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Because I do have some self-respect left dawdling in me, I will return to my weight loss days—the abandonment of which has snowballed into the daily bingeing of years pastohgodohgodIhavetostopeatingmyfeelings—tomorrow, Sunday, April 8, 2007. Papa Jeesas will rise, the Easter Bunny will hide his eggs in the nether regions of malls and hotels, and I will seriously start preventing my return to Marge the Large Barge-dom.
And yes, that really was my nickname in high school. Children, can you say “scarred for life?”
Merc and I were playing a little basketball this morning, and a bum shot of mine accidentally bust a water pipe in our backyard. The ball bounced against this garden faucet and the pipe burst open in different places. We tried to tame the many strong sprays of water with electrical tape because we’re girl-morons that way, which, of course, didn’t work. We tried searching for the main water switch instead, and that didn’t work either, although I enjoyed seeing the house from a plumber’s perspective. So many, many, many pipes. Delicate creatures, houses.
I’m not exactly sure how the problem was remedied since my uncle took over after a bit. He looked as perturbed as we were when tinkering with the pipe, but he had way more gumption, I think. Anyway, the backyard’s dry now so hooraywoohoo. Either my uncle did find a way to fix the pipe, or he up and left it so the whole ground floor could just dry up. There’s a way out of everything.
Speaking of ways out, I received a text message today announcing the death of Botin, our high school science teacher. Big, gay bear of a man. One of those guys who only pretend to be all gruff and bad-ass when they’re really dependent on their Aiza Seguerra CDs to put them to sleep at night. He’s been very sick for a few years now, so I guess it’s a good thing that he passed away.
He was a nice guy. He only faked being a Chem and Physics Nazi. And he let me have liver spread on pan de sal some mornings. And when my Chem group stopped him at the last minute from drinking our lab-made pineapple wine which I had inadvertently poisoned with mercury from the thermometer because I thought I could help out with the stirring since just checking the temperature was too fucking dull a task dear god was I antsy that morning and the group decided to just bottle the tainted stuff and let it ferment along with the other groups' wine because we wanted a grade, he just laughed it off. We almost killed him but he was okay with it. Now, he’s actually dead. I would like to wish him an afterlife with Pagdating ng Panahon
on loop, please. This will probably be the only time I will wish this with good intentions.
posted by marguerite @ 10:36 PM
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The video for The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights," my Song of Disillusionment at least for this week. I've been listening to it again and again and again all day. It feels like ice cream. So is the cover by Iron and Wine, although the original electropop version is far more heartening. And I would rather have that in this week of Church-prescribed depression. Holy Week still gets to this non-religious type all the same, with its yearly offering of heat and silence.
I've been doing a lot of numbing out lately. The gods of dishwashing have been replaced with the gods of 2-point shots, thanks to the new hoop installed in our backyard. Sense the shoddy, ironic metaphor for perfect aim. Again, the nights out with old and new friends and the taxi rides around unfamiliar parts of the city that these entail. And, as was mentioned, music. More often than not, when I'm sprawled out on my bed, pondering the events that have led me to my current horizontal state, sound is needed. The likes of "Such Great Heights," especially, which are just so fucking earnest.
Starting tomorrow, Merc is spending a few days here in the house like she's been doing for the past few years during Holy Week. The two of us call it adoption, but she doesn't know that I'm more of the one being taken care of when she's around, if you consider providing me with company a legitimate form of nurturing. Which you should. My friends tell me that I've been able to handle all kinds of things on my own pretty well, and there's always a part of me that begs to disagree.
posted by marguerite @ 11:42 PM
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Before anything else, Advance Hapi Birdie, Tabaaaaaaa!
Typing this post on my spankin’ new laptop, which I’ve decided to name Moloko. “Moloko” is Nadsat (or the quasi-Russian slang used in A Clockwork Orange
) for “milk.” It is much too obvious a choice for those who know my fixation on both the novel and the film, but tough cookies. I was a bit drawn towards “Hustle Rose” as well, which, I’ve come to realize, is one of the songs that have saved me, but having a flower in the name didn’t feel too right. So Moloko it is.
Graduation day was awful for a certain reason, and I ended up taking the next cab home seconds after we did that final finger-in-the-air thing for that Mary song. I spent the rest of the night alone at MiniStop. Drawn to the damn place, scum that I am.
I guess I made up for it the next day. Spent it with old and new friends. Even dropped by the House of Decadence for what would most likely be one of the last ViCe parties to ever be held. The decadence in our parties have grown increasingly calculated through the years. But the people I had shared adolescence with are the people I had shared adolescence with, and that is worthy of my time. Two hours’ worth, at least. Whatever worth my “time” possesses.
I have become reliant on new thought processes when doing the same things. I would like to see this as a good thing, please.
posted by marguerite @ 6:25 PM