My Mysterious Job

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A lot of people are asking me, “What exactly is your job?”  Whenever I say “writer,” my friends back home ask a rather interesting follow-up question:

“What exactly do you write about?”

I’m tongue-tied: but I have signed a confidentiality agreement with my current company that I really can’t divulge anything about what I do.  I can only speak of my job in vague, metaphorical, mysterious-sounding terms that serve to romanticize my cubicle, carpal tunnel syndrome, and dividing my big one-hour break into convenient 15-minute mini-breaks.

I can’t help but think that by some stroke of sheer luck, I have a job that I am actually getting very addicted to.  I’ve never been this addicted to anything since cigarettes, Coke Light (not Coke Zero), and lately, the Ken Lee video at YouTube.  My workmates are very friendly, and I have yet to meet the human equivalent of Catbert.  I don’t have to whine and moan and complain about high noon in Manila because I work in airconditioned comfort.  I actually look forward going to work, save for those freaking MRT rides from Quezon Avenue to Ortigas or Shaw.  Or waking up at 4:30 AM.

The only misgiving I have so far about my job is that I have to commute.  I could, if I wanted to, devote an entire site to how much I loathe and despise the MRT, U-turn slots, and Bayani Fernando’s glamour shots that, again, makes him the perfect spokesman for Kotex (move over, Heart Evangelista).

Other than that, I prefer to keep my job description a mystery.  Unless I get really stressed out one day and have my own “I hate work” story to tell you.

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