Watering Holes
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Wrote this two days ago. Was supposed to blog it, but the futility of doing so was still ever-so-slightly apparent to me then.
I have tired myself through boredom. It’s the most unnerving feeling, bogged down in the massive, murky caverns of the restless. I have this incredible desire to explode, but my body doesn’t have enough energy to ball up, much less detonate.
Work has fallen dormant. The TV show’s been put on hold ever since our banned episode and will only air again once we have everything reformatted. Not much being asked of me from my other rackets, either. Was plagued by so much free time today that I went to Megamall to get some trivial bank business over and done with, and that took all of five minutes. Then went to a café to supposedly eat and read at a leisurely pace, but only found myself ordering more and more shit to preoccupy myself, and since I felt so bad about gorging, I walked the whole length of each of Megamall’s five floors and then footed it home. Passed out on the couch. Woke up at dinnertime feeling bloated and annoyed. Tried sprucing up my blog template for an hour or so only to go back to the old one.
I am so tired and bored. Whine, whine, whine.
I have decided to post that sad-sack soliloquy above because, a few days later, it’s all still the same damn thing. It’s funny how bored I am, gravely preoccupying myself with the most inane tasks—such as trying to figure out how to burn these goddamn BIN files onto DVD-Rs (motherfucker, I can’t watch half of what I’ve torrented)—although I’m afraid the hilarity is starting to get lost on me.
The most interesting—and by interesting, I mean bodily-movement-related—event I’d undergone recently happened the night of that original blog post. Having decided not to post the tripe anymore, I was squirming around in bed, feeling sooooo faaaakkking useleeeeesssssss, when Carl called. His car had gotten all wonky and overheated somewhere along EDSA, and if I could please meet him at EDSA Central to help him out.
And off I went. I, Margie, Un-Knower of All Vehicle-Associated Concerns, Kibitzer in Any and All Possible Incidents Open for Kibitzing, She Who Shall Squirm (squirm! squirm! squirm!) for All Useless Folk in the Shaw-Ortigas Area.
When I got to Carl and his fevered little ride, Carl instructed me to go inside the Starbucks right next to us and ask for a gallon of water. And off I went. I, Margie, The Pushover. The barista manning the place was a sour-faced little bitch, and the fact that I looked every bit a girl who had just stumbled out of bed, thrown a hoodie on, and was just too eager for some action, did not help. She eventually handed me a jug with traces of non-fat milk in it and pointed to the washroom. But the jug did not fit in the sink, much too bulky for its mouth to reach the faucet, so I had to go back out and ask SourPuss for a spare cup. Finally, stocked with passable paraphernalia and wrung dry of every single drop of shame, I made like an urchin and filched the place of its agua. Trooped back and forth between washroom and car with my fat little jug, trying very hard to believe that this was quite the worthy task, a task that would properly validate my barren, barren day.
And then, once the car was cured, Carl passed by my place and we played with my webcam. The End.
I think I’ll wrap this entry up now, before I embarrass myself any further. Have finally dug a friend up to hang out with this afternoon, anyway. Woohoo. Oh, and by the by, another reason why my days have been pretty drained is because of that stupid Ad Congress. Everyone’s in Subic having sex but me. Copywriting bastards.
posted by marguerite @ 11:26 AM
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