I have a horrendously long list of articles to edit. To do complete overhauls on, actually, because whoever wrote this stuff spent his whole life steeped in a pot of Crappy.
Everything sounds better appended to the word "caramelized." Caramelized bananas. Caramelized apples. Caramelized keyboards. Caramelized lightning. Caramelized eye crust. Caramelized deep-seated trauma.
1.5 articles down, 61 to go. This is not pretty.
I am feeling very confused and vulnerable lately, and the only reason I can think of for this current state of ookishness is the great, unconstrained sweep of time ahead of me, as opposed to previous years when impending school-dom would somewhat ground me during this season. Not that I've ever been able to predict most of the events I've deemed significant, but there are, admittedly, some milestones that had to occur simply because the school year said so. Like thesis (titi). Or the simple fact of taking new classes, which leads to meeting new people and doing certain new things. Now it's all liquid, each issue as permeable as the next no matter how feckless it is. Like the ideas of certain people. I am obsessing over the way they portray themselves, not even of who they really are. Because I am that fucking erratic right now. Man.
Last night, I dreamed I could ride a bicycle. And that I had to ride a bicycle for the rest of my life. Me speeding through traffic on a two-wheeler woohoo. It felt great to be able to ride a bike, although I think I woke up from my dream because I crashed into a sedan on EDSA.
Last night, while still conscious, I went Little Miss Massacre on five flying ipises. For some reason, they all decided to gang up on me, swooping straight for my pillow or my book or my boob or my glasses. The fact that there were five of them all at once, and that they all decided to give me a hard time, just got me really, really annoyed. Five mad, flying ipises. It was uncanny, like they were past human souls banded together in some karmic crusade to, well, annoy me. Whether or not they were the dregs of samsara or the house I live in has just become extra-extra-infested, my slippers and I committed five counts of insecticide, anyway.
If reincarnation really was the culprit, I wonder who those ipises were. Hrm.
posted by marguerite @ 5:56 PM
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Pubey Boy: well that's 'cause you're cuntilicious Pubey Boy: use 'cunt' in a sentence today Milkmaid: i have a cuntifically bad fever today. Pubey Boy: that's cuntingly bad Milkmaid: cunt it. i cunting know, right? Pubey Boy: haha you silly cunt
In case you hadn’t deduced it from that piece of profundity above, I am sick in bed. I am sick in bed, I did not go to work, there was a presentation today, I did not go to work, I did not go to work. But I am sick in bed. But there was a presentation today. I did not go to work. But I am sick in bed. And I have this really bad feeling that they didn’t get the stuff I worked on at 1 a.m. today. Even if I emailed it twice. But then again, I woke up to find no angry text messages or emails waiting for me. Or any text message or email, for that matter. So maybe they channel their ire through silence.
However, despite this paranoia (which I’m sure will cloud my discernment of office relations for the next week or two), the fact remains that I am still in bed. And I will stay in it. Because I am sick, and it would be nice to return to the office tomorrow in good form. Not in that droopy, tissue-wielding, Extra Strength Tylenol-loopy form I was in. I’m also paranoid that they’re holding this sick leave against me because I was obviously not taking care of myself yesterday, what with the smoking and the fact that I even went to work in the first place. But again, all guilt aside, I am still in bed. And I am going to get well. I am not going to lie down for one more hour and then suddenly find myself on the next train to Makati, telling myself that I just couldn’t fucking help it. Except for when I pee, my back and my bed sheets are going to be the Bestest Friends Forever. For today.
Ignoring my fever yesterday was well worth it, anyhow. Work-wise, a lot needed to be done. More importantly, though, I got to see my friends. I’ve been really needing their company recently, mired as I am in this state of Great Big Ugly for the past few weeks. And besides having a good albeit short time with them last night, they also reminded me that I needed to take care of myself. I’ve always had trouble with my priorities, and my friends always provide that sense of, um, having sense that I need. That loving wallop on the back of my head, that combination of kind words and grave eyes. I love my friends to pieces. I know I’m treading trite territory with this paragraph, but I really do feel lucky to have the friends I have, and I hope I can be as good to them, too.
So here I am in bed. I listened to my friends, eased the rod out of my ass about halfway, and went on sick leave. I don’t know what will become of me tomorrow, but I think I’ll be able to handle it. I need to get rest today. I need to keep still, get rid of this fever completely, and let the past few weeks—a malady of a different, more toxic strain—dissipate at last.
posted by marguerite @ 11:58 AM
"Peachy the Prosti" on Youtube!!!
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
We're going multimedia! We don't care if it's getting really old really fast to the subject of our creative endeavors. She can roll her eyes and pop another piece of tokwa into her mouth with as disinterested a motion as she can muster, but we're going to keep at this until we creators tire of it ourselves. (So in a couple of decades.) Thus, behold "Peachy the Prosti" Youtube edition, wherein I sing the first verse of our brilliant little ditty while being filmed and flash-lit by Wench Eigenmann. It was, as they all say, a labor of luuurrrvve.
I suggest a few simple steps to maximize your enjoyment of the video.
Step One Watch the video. Familiarize yourself with the melody, meter and intonation.
Step Two Watch the video while referring to the song lyrics posted in a previous entry. A separate Explorer/Firefox window should do the trick.
Step Three Sing along with the video.
Step Four Repeat Steps One through Three until singing "Peachy the Prosti" has become an inherent force in your psyche.
Step Five Hunt Peachy down and regale her face to face with your newfound skill.
Anywench, this video came about during one of the duller moments in my little NAMFREL stint with Wench Eigenmann yesterday. Wench E. was the Voting Center Manager for Brgy. Paligsahan, and I was his bitch. It was our role to collect NAMFREL's copy of the election returns for all the precincts under this barangay and to deliver them to the volunteer droogs back in Ateneo. There were very long periods of waiting at the barangay's high school, hence the time and energy to create another dimension to the "Peachy the Prosti" saga.
I have to say that I've never seen Wench E. this diligent before, scurrying around the school building and helping out whenever he could. It was very commendable, and further concretized the fact that I am scum. I did all my assistant-ly duties as best as I could, but this mostly consisted of my sitting in one place and making sure no teacher ran off with any set of election returns without handing us our copy. Saying that my ass is sore for the good of the nation won't exactly cast me in a respectable light. More so because I didn't vote. Pero rakstar talaga si Carl woohoo.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have written such distracting paragraphs. Go on, go back to your "Peachy the Prosti" rehearsals. The future depends on you.
posted by marguerite @ 2:05 PM
Guess Which Doors Song Fits This Entry Best
Friday, May 11, 2007
There are several different companies in the building I work in, with two companies splitting the entirety of one floor. ("Entirety," though, doesn't seem that appropriate a word to use, considering that the whole structure is this cramped 6-floor deal and will be the last thing on Pasong Tamo to ever be considered grandiose. Oh, and the place has this temperamental elevator that can only fit three people and, through its random blinking numbers, lies about what floor its actually on. I'm not complaining, though. I happen to find run-down places cozy. I've been living in one for most of my life, after all. And the elevator has a mirror. But I digress.) The washrooms, strangely enough, are located in between floors, on floor 1.5, 2.5, and so on, if you will. Such special spaces, our washrooms. Since our company is on the 6th floor, the washroom I frequent is on floor 5.5, and the weird .5 corridor it's on gives me an ample view of one of the companies on the floor below us. It would be safe to say that this company has something to do with fire safety. Because there is a life-size statue of a Caucasian fireman by their front door, just a few feet away from the little girls' room. And it's not some hot fireman, either (sorry, Vittorio). It's this big, old moustached guy. Like Super Mario, only taller and not a plumber. So anyway, the whole point of this bad paragraph is that every single time I leave the washroom, I come face to face with a scary, plaster man. I've never gotten used to it. You'd be confused too if you came face to face with a scary, plaster man wielding an enormous hose every single time you finish peeing. You'd feel violated, even. But maybe if the guy just didn't look so "Suburban Dad from the Volunteer Fire Brigade," and looked more, I don't know, attuned to the fireman image of pornos past, it would be much, much better.
posted by marguerite @ 4:50 PM
(Written Earlier on Paper)
Thursday, May 10, 2007
8:48 p.m. Around 3 hours left before I make my way home. I can’t go back there until everyone’s definitely asleep. The rain’s cooperating, coming down hard, stranding me here in EDSA Central. The cold is nice.
9:16 p.m. What I would give to see him coming down this walkway, dripping from the rain, big black headphones still on. He will see me sitting here. I will stand and smile and hug him and he will keep me company while I wait for midnight. Yellow Cab’s next door, so maybe we will have pizza, like he promised me on the last night we ever spent together.
(The big, fat call center boys are back. One of them got a haircut.)
9:47 p.m. Must pack when I get home. It will be a weekend getaway in the most literal sense. Must not forget charger.
10:18 p.m. Just got back from the washroom. There was a sign there that said “Please Use Toilet Paper Prudently.” Does that mean I have to make a “prudent” face while using their toilet paper? Eyebrows raised a tad, tight-lipped smile, maybe humming something nice and earnest? I can't remember what face I made while in there.
10:32 p.m. Got my first-ever paycheck today. I mean, I’ve gotten checks for working on random things, but this was the first time I got one from a real, dead-serious contract-bound job. Efren, the senior designer, cracked up when I took a picture of the check. Can’t post it on the blog, though. Lighting was bad. Was nearing evening then and the pantry’s fluorescents are dimmer than most.
10:50 p.m. Screw midnight. This should be late enough.
posted by marguerite @ 11:55 PM
Because the Beauty of Online Self-Publishing is That You Can Litter Your Swatch of Cyberspace with Bitter Vagueries
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
I am not taken very seriously at home, you see. I’ve been a cartoon to my family this entire time—a dark, stubborn, toxic cartoon, a dismissible caricature of the angry girl. And the thing is, I’m not really that angry, and it’s just unfortunate that they only get to see this surface-level stewing-in-her-juices aspect of me. And because of that, I feel even more frustrated in their company, leading me to look even more like the Daria they’ve made me out to be.
I am a decidedly happier person than that. But all this “let’s all be on our toes because Margie might do something disgraceful yet again” treatment has gone on for so long that it’s congealed into some impenetrable force now. I am such a different, more tangible person around others, but I can’t be the same way around my own family. Their skewed idea of me has become too concrete.
What makes this whole deal even stickier is that I really can’t become the relative they wish I could be. It isn’t just a matter of smiling more. To be the lovable daughter/granddaughter/cousin/niece to them, I would have to turn my back on a certain decision I made that I still deem a perfectly logical move. I made that decision because I knew and felt that it was the best thing to do. I would like to think that a real life is one run on our own personal decisions, not on those of others. I don’t want to die with the thought that I compromised my whole life in order to be tolerated better, that I put on some good girl show so I could be their idea of normal and nice.
He made me a miserable person too early on in my life. No child deserves exposure to such unfounded insensitivity, to such violence. I spent the first decade of my life in the purest fear, subject to vicious words and an even harsher fist. And I knew that I had to be free of that, that there were so many great experiences ahead of me if I just had control over myself.
I wouldn’t be living a genuine life if I didn’t make that decision. If I took it all back and cooperated in making my family a sham, I wouldn’t have encountered the world the way any self-respecting person should. All of us are here for only a handful of decades, and there’s no point in not milking our lives for all they’re worth. So I’m not sorry that I prevented myself from such artifice. It’s just too bad that I’m synthetic to them already.
posted by marguerite @ 10:05 PM
My Blog is Not My Happy Place
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Carl told me never to bring work home. And I knew that rule way before, practicing it successfully for the first few days of my Makati Ho-dom. But then Friday’s big steaming pile of Deadliest Deadline Doodoo plopped right down on my head and made me the saddest fuck for the next two days.
If I write one more synonym down for “premium” or “savor,” I am going to scream. *And thus, the future echoes with Margie’s hapless cries.* I write slow, you see. It takes me an hour or two to feel happy with a paragraph. Nay, a sentence. And, apparently, I am a copywriter as well. These two facts do not result in my wellbeing. They do, however, result in whole days of anguishing over whether the use of “wellbeing” was convincing enough for my latest draft of brochure copy.
Whenever I feel harassed, I try to do what Adam Sandler tells me to and go to my happy place. And as of late, my happy place has been the clothes store. My wardrobe has grown. Exponentially. So now I can sport a nice top while feeling harassed and poor, hooray hooray.
Ten minutes before the Project Runway re-run, my other erstwhile refuge. Sige, tara, one more synonym. Let’s see. Which one, which one. O, sige, eto na lang.
posted by marguerite @ 7:59 PM
Will Not Resist
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Type “(your name) likes to” in Google and copy-paste the first ten results.
+ Marguerite likes to have options. + Marguerite likes to spend her time reading, cooking and gardening, not to mention cross-stitching and needlepoint. + Marguerite likes to see Roxton smile. + Marguerite likes to pretend she’s small-boned and utterly beautiful. + This is an easy marshmallow salad recipe that Marguerite likes to make when she has friends over for a braai. + Marguerite likes to take terrible pictures of me. + And yes, Marguerite likes to yell at people. + In the summer months, Marguerite likes to travel. + Our Marguerite likes to make her own kills. + Marguerite likes to hold on to her grudges much longer than you do.
Lovely. And I have no idea what a braai is.
posted by marguerite @ 1:05 PM
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Feels good to appreciate Labor Day Eve the way it’s supposed to be appreciated: lunging into whatever Happy Friends Time is available, knowing full well that the next day will not be spent at the office. At last, the lousy reprieve of the workforce has gained significance for me. I will be working from my bed the whole time tomorrow, though. This rod will never leave my ass.
Tonight’s episode of Happy Friends Time featured me, Carl, Peachy and three drained pitchers. Despite the holiday’s thrust for the conscious evasion of productivity, Carl and I worked hard on a nice little ditty for The Peachy. Yes, yes. Worked very hard, making sure the original melody and our lyrics (oozing with profundity) jived into the masterpiece of this day and age. We debated over the use of “twat” in place of “cunt,” and in the end, we agreed that pairing “cunt” and “butt” together was the more accurate portrayal of deep human emotion. To hell with the rhyme.
So it goes a little something like this:
The Peachy Song (to the tune of Frosty the Snowman)
Peachy the Prostiiiiiii Has a very happy cunt She will sleep with you If you ask her to And she’ll take it up the buuuuttttt
Peachy the Trannyyyy Has a very tiny cock She will sleep with you But it won’t get up So by then she’ll have to suuuuucccckkk