A generational divide, as seen in elevators

Because of the sheer number of people working in the building where my office is, the elevators only stop at certain floors during the morning rush hour. Of the four elevators serving the upper half of the building, two are designated to make stops from the 16th to the 20th floors, while two make stops from the 21st to the 27th.

I work on the 19th floor, so I go on the former, or at least when I get to work between a quarter to eight and nine flat. Allene, who works - err, worked - on either the 24th or the 25th (don't ask me, they're too big and they hog everything), goes on the latter.

We often talk about these elevators, mostly about how terrible it is to find yourself stranded at the elevator lobby for quarter-hours during the lunch rush, but sometimes about how we don't really often bump into each other in the elevators. Well, we do. In those cases, either she doesn't notice me, or I don't notice her, or we do notice each other, but cannot acknowledge each other because of the sheer number of people.

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All those possibilities

Ten years ago, at around half past five in the morning, I took a bus from Las Piñas. I settled in my seat, plugged in my earphones, and tried not to sleep, fearing I might be robbed.

Frankly, the details are now murky. I know that, in one of these bus rides, I made conversation with an older woman, where we discussed her son's first day in college. This might have happened on this particular morning. This might have happened a few weeks prior, on the first day of my two-day freshman orientation, although apparently the term is "frosh".

"Welcome, froshies!" these strangers yelled on those two days, and it felt overwhelming and weird and fun. Fun, because, well, it's exciting. You're entering college! This is really it!

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Keeping as far as practicable

It's a hard, long wait.

The worst thing that could happen did: the car I was driving broke down. For no apparent reason. In the middle of EDSA. In the middle of rush hour.

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You know?

Six years ago, I was in my office's meeting room, having a one-on-one Skype call with the big boss from Seattle. One-on-one, meaning it's one of those calls where they seriously review what we've done the past few months - and where more effusive praise is doled out. Or at least that's how I remember it. It's six years ago. It's quite far back.

"So," he begins, "do you think Pacquiao and Mayweather will fight?"

I was taken aback. Yes, it's small talk, but I wasn't expecting a conversation about boxing. Or, well, I wasn't expecting small talk. Come on. This was six years ago. I was extremely awkward and already pretty jaded about relationships, whether it be friendly or romantic. Or professional. And here we are, talking about boxing.

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You can be a manager too!

Today I put out my very first Facebook ad. It's for the night job. Suddenly I have to make good on my supposed marketing credentials. And yes, I apparently have them. I've been doing this for three years and I still say I just "apparently" have them, but anyway.

It's for an industry event, targeting professionals, and even if the depth of parameters you have in your hands when you're implementing a Facebook ad campaign - you do pay with your information, you know - can be intimidating, you eventually get the hang of it. As long as you make sure you only pay what you're willing to pay.

So. Target users from the Philippines. Target particular industries. Apparently the site can deduce what industry you're in from what you type on your profile. Target management. Target production. Target retail. Target transportation. Don't muck with the other things. Let's see where this goes.

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