Mandatory First Brazilian Wax Survival Blog Entry

7 01 2011

Disclaimer: This entry is not recommended for humans under 18, and blood relatives of the author. Especially the latter, because it will be gross and awkward the next time I see them.

So I got my nether region waxed the other day, and it was a horrible, horrible experience. I would like to think of myself as impervious to all kinds of pain, including tattooing, dysmenorrhea and common social situations, but hot damn, getting waxed down there is really something else.

I’d been wanting to get waxed for quite a while now in order to feel cleaner and keep my man-slave at bay, but I finally got around to it only upon learning how common the practice had become. I figured, if most girls could do it (and I imagined most girls being pansy-assed compared to me), then I could do it.  I strutted into that waxing salon yesterday like I’d lived there all my life.

The fact of the matter is, however, getting your pubes ripped out from the roots with a clump of wax is getting your pubes ripped out from the roots with a clump of wax. The whole experience was anti-intuitive: giving away your hard-earned cash to feel incredible pain over and over and over again. To give all of you a clearer idea, my thoughts during the actual process went something like this:

Ow. Ouch. Okay. Ow. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. Ow. Ouch. Ouch. Agh. PUTANG INA MO MAMATAY KA NA. Ouch. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ouch. PAKINGSHET TAMA NA TAMA NA GUSTO KO NA UMUWI PLEASE PLEASE GUSTO KO NA UMUWI PLEASE. Ouch. Ow. Okay. Okay. Ow. FUCK. Okay. Ow.

I was supposed to just rest my thigh against the waxer’s torso to steady myself, but I was practically kneeing her over and over again from the pain. I was clutching the towel so hard, I could feel my nails digging into my palm through the terrycloth. I tried staring at one blank spot on the ceiling, tried going through my repository of happy thoughts, but nothing. I was tearing up; I was gasping.

The waxer cheerily informed me that I had bled a little.

I was dazed when we were done, stumbling out of the salon and plodding aimlessly around the mall like a solider told that the war was over. I guess a Brazilian’s also akin to losing your virginity; there’s that moment after when all you can think of is Thank god, THAT’S over.

I know I’m coming off as melodramatic, and I know the waxings will get less and less painful from month to month due to finer hairs, but things like these need to be vented, yo. They need to be documented for, well, posterity. Something to calm me and/or future spawn down the next time one of us gets new ink or has a trike run over her leg.

Of course, I will do my best to make this a regular thing, nonetheless. There’s no denying that the finished product is very, very beneficial. I had good reasons for going and these reasons still stand. It’s just a bitch is all. And suffice it to say that my man-slave owes me big time. I’m thinking about 3-4 dinners-on-him per month/waxing should do just fine.

So hi, everyone. My name is Margie, and I’m a (smooth and supple) pansy-ass.

(Image from gabrielutasi.com)

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Shout-Out to My Homeboy Kevin!!!

12 07 2010

Saturday night was a great comfort. And not just because Kevin upped the validity of my readership (I am 85% sure he is not a pervert), although that was certainly heartening. I spent it with good people, and felt like myself for the first time in a while.

I haven’t been feeling too hot these past few months, but it’s good to know I have friends and my man-slave to help me figure out what’s what. I can’t really expound on what’s been happening lately without going Prozac Nation on all y’all, so for the time being, below is a teensy treatise I punched out recently:

In Defense of Your Perversions





News Lang

7 05 2010

This month’s issue of New Slang is out! Check out my “Letter to Future Spawn,” plus other future-themed pieces and mixtapes. Tenkyu, Jaton!





Grief

4 08 2009

This entry’s a pain to write. I am self-serving Capitalist Scum, and years and years of apathy is making sure that whatever I type down here right now will reek with a most heady scent of Weh. But the fact remains that I caught myself crying over Cory last night. D was also privy to this, and I understand the utter bewilderment on his face as he watched me getting all weepy over I-Witness’s EDSA I retrospective. Could it be? My skank-ho has a heart for democracy?

To be honest, I’m not sure. Politics-wise, I’ve never been actively adamant about anything, nor have I taken the time to clearly think about where I actually stand. Yes, in 2001, I footed it with some of my family to the EDSA Shrine, clad in black and anti-Erap stickers and wielding a be-diapered Baby Erap doll. Yes, I voted for Roco. Yes, I think Villar’s genius ad campaign’s going to be the end of us (this being Death # 4,500,627,855,399.53). But I know they are empty actions and feelings for the most part, because there is only a modicum of true conviction behind them, just enough to get my ass or mouth moving for a moment. I am shitty.

But despite my unabashed preference for living in a cold, cozy pit of apathy, I couldn’t stop myself from tearing up in front of the TV these past few days. Last night’s outburst was the result of a couple days’s worth of pretending 101% of me didn’t give a damn.

My earliest (and probably only) memory of Cory was just before the ’92 Presidential elections, when I was around 7. Most of the adults in the family were huddled around the dining table, discussing who they were going to vote for. After my exposure to their very cryptic, grown-up grumblings throughout the afternoon, I asked my mom who the current President was in the first place. That’s when she fully explained who Cory was and how she got the slot, and I clearly remember myself feeling all feminist, thinking, “A girl president! That is so awesome! Good for her! That means I can be whatever I want to be!”

Fast-forward 17 years later, and I am whatever I want to be. And what I want to be is self-serving Capitalist Scum. And I am staring at the TV screen, at the ancient footage of a crowd brimming with such fury and passion and purpose, and knowing full well that the past decade has sapped nearly all of this wonderful energy, and that this is such a motherfucking waste. And then, the waterworks.

See? I can’t write about this without sounding shallow and insincere. It’s probably because I am, because I have not made enough efforts to learn about all that had happened, have not acted according to some selfless belief. The best I can do is to try and write about my grief over Cory Aquino’s passing and the horrendous ocean of crap we’re bobbing in ever-so-languorously now.

Key word is try. Of course, bitch ends up writing about herself instead.





My FaceBook Status Updates from the Past 24 Hours

21 07 2009

Marguerite is tearing her hair out, failing to accept that FaceBook and YM are blocked from her new office’s Net connection. HOW WILL SHE LIIIIIIIIVVVVVE?!?!?!?

Marguerite works on the 18th floor of the Very Big Hospital. Her view is AWESOME. There is a fucking BIRD outside her window.

Marguerite loves the office CR. Her stall has an even better, bigger view than the one from her desk.

Marguerite pees amidst skyscrapers.

Marguerite just remembered that people are (literally) dying around her. And okay, fine, babies being born, but whatever.

Marguerite now knows what speech-making is like. She is thoroughly amused.

Marguerite feels very lonely without YM and FB. The bird outside her window was just a fluke.

Marguerite bewails the office Net connection, which is equivalent to a semi-okay dial-up.

Marguerite is convinced that this is the most respectable job she has had thus far, because the stuff she has to write actually helps people stay alive and shit like that. Suck it, SEO, suck iiiiit.

Marguerite feels productive! Hoo-hah!

Marguerite feels really stupid updating a WordPress ‘Edit Post’ page.

Marguerite swears that this is the last time she is eating sugared baked goods in lieu of meals. Her face is turning into a lard dumpling.

Marguerite wants to know where the morgue is, and whether all employees have access.

Marguerite must walk every day to the mall for exercise. Malayo-layo siya, ha.

Marguerite WILL find that morgue, even if it kills her.

Marguerite has decided that she likes her job.

Marguerite is giving up this pretend-FaceBook shit. Buti na lang may wi-fi sa Galle.





A More Politically-Incorrect Blog Entry than Usual (Ata)

20 06 2009

But before I—inevitably yet not exactly intentionally—go off and offend particular demographics in this entry, I would just like to plug that my short story “Frozen Delight” is out in the latest issue of Playboy Philippines.*

Now—

D believes that any pretty morena girl looks like a pretty domestic helper or, in his own, more accurate wording, “magandang katulong.” This, to him, is not a negative insight in any way. I am morena, and I am D’s exclusive bitch/shawty/skank-ho/labidoods. My brown-skinned ilk is his preference. But yes, he insists that most pretty, pure-bred Pinays possess one and the same base facial feature—that of the household help—only with particular improvements.

I really, really, really (really! seriously! if you seriously cannot take my insights with a grain of salt, then I give you all the leeway in the world to think I am a dumbass or, at least, don’t know any better) don’t want to offend anyone here, but what he said kind of makes sense on one end. The bulk of men who consider me attractive are either perverts, or blue-collar folk such as carpenters and garbage collectors, or a very, very worrisome combination of both. And I had already come to convince myself that there was a certain “accessibility” to the way I look, but it is only now, through D’s quite offhand declaration, that my suspicions have been so deftly, yet crudely, concretized.

Still, being that I am the owner of my face and, thus, have gotten so used to it to the point of not noticing anything that it imparts anymore to society in general, I would really like to know what other people think. I implore you, then, kind sirs and madams, to consider my humble query:

*It is not erotica. I do not write erotica. I am not against erotica, but I do not believe that I have, well, the proclivity to romanticize the sexual act. I do have a story out in last year’s FHM erotica anthology, but that piece is really slathered all over with the ooey-gooey white truth that I, when tasked to write anything remotely related to intercourse, have the eloquence of an adolescent male. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, but I digress from this digression.