She tells me to improve on my writing. There she goes up front pointing out each of my grammatical errors. The whiteboard is bleeding red and blue. I cannot bear to look.

Instead of inspire me to write, she has turned my interest into fear. I do not complain, though. What she's doing helps, in a way. I probably need a breath of fresh air.

Seeing the concrete 42 floors down, I anticipate my fall. Underemployment. What was that again? Did she say I defined it wrong? People below look like ants to me. Makati in the morning doesn't look like much. More like my own writing. More like this woman lecturing me the do's and don't's of effective abstract writing.

All of us look good in the dark and under artificial lights.

How sad. How boring. Now she's talking about the perfect tense. Yadda. Yadda. My mind is wandering elsewhere. Ha! She's gabbing on and here I am with my head bent, writing furiously on an recycyled notepad. Does she notice at all? Does she seriously think I'm taking down notes? I bet she does. My attention is not with her. My seatmate is probably worried lest I bring both of us trouble by not listening. And being obviously distracted at that. Maybe I should stop now.

My eyes stare blankly at the whiteboard she fills and refills every 5 minutes. "Tell me something I don't know".