In the most likely event that I lose my job.

I never wanted to be a copywriter. For one, I've never really believed I was creative. For two, who in their right mind would want to spend 18 and twenty hours in an office with a bunch of people who have Happy Meal toys lining their desks and believe that the Oprah Winfrey show is part of a large conspiracy to melt their testicles and make their chests magically grow breasts.

But I slipped on the large puddles of logical reasoning and landed in a job in which really, I have no business being. I see myself teaching Literature to a classroom full of people filing their nails or looking down each other's butt cracks. After five years of advertising, I'm pretty used to people not listening to what I say anyway.

And advertising is too hard. I can't write a headline. All mine sound and look like novels placed in a big font. And this job I have feels like getting dressed in the morning and putting on 5 kg of lipstick to step into a sugarcane juicer.

It wasn't always this way. There was a time when I walked in every morning to the sound of bugles. Images of awards exploding like fireworks in a lopsided halo around my head. Visions of my father, a renowned copywriter himself, swelling up with pride, knowing that he created a good product. Hardly would I be briefed when a killer headline would bullet from my lips and land without a splatter on the layout.

I don't know what went wrong. But if anyone needs a plant waterer or a cobweb cleaner for a house with ceilings under five feet, two inches; I'm up.