This morning, my coworker Jen sent a few of us a link to this creepy story about a 24-year-old man who worked at an ad agency. He worked crazy hours for month—and then he dropped dead. Zoinks. The story is even creepier considering that Jen passed it on because WE have been working crazy hours. Like yesterday, I was glued to my desk until almost 11 p.m.—then I tumbled into a cab, crawled up the stairs to my apartment, got in bed with my cat and ate chocolate and cried. Kidding! (About the crying, anyway.)

Danielle, another editor here, responded that maybe we should have a heart attack but NOT die (as if we could control that) and then try to get some settlement money.

“Ooh, I like where your head’s at,” I said, sentence-ending preposition and all, and emailed this fine suggestion:

How do we fake a heart attack? Or we could just pretend to have a serious nervous breakdown—like in School Ties when the kid loses it because their French teacher is such a hard-ass and the other guys find him in the classroom in the middle of the night, muttering French to himself. And then when they’re carting him out to the ambulance, the teacher shows up, and Brendan Fraser is like, “YOU DID THIS!” in his sexy deep voice (back when he was considered sexy).** Except in our case, we’d be muttering about word repetitions.

So if my next post is about how I’m rich and moving to Paris, you’ll know that act involving curling up in a ball under my desk and frantically mumbling about how we used “über” three times this issue paid off. Literally.

**Editor’s note: Back when Brendan Fraser was considered sexy AND when Chris O’Donnell was a precocious little dreamboat-in-training.

My sister sent me this for Easter:

Because it was one of my favorite books as a little kid. Also, because when I was a little kid, I once wore bunny ears and a fluffy tail to school and said, in a weird, childish, sort of Forrest Gump-y, nasally version of my voice, “I’m a bun-nay.” It’s captured on video at my parents’ house.

I’ve always loved bunnies. I desperately wanted one when I was a younger, but my mom said no because our cat would eat it (lies!). When I was in college, I tried to get people to call me Bunny; one friend continues to call me that. (The nickname offer still stands if anyone else wants to take me up on it.) It’s a wonder I never wandered off to work for Hugh Hefner. (If someone had told kid me that there’s an occupation that would give me the title “bunny,” I probably would’ve had very different career goals.)

I now have this book on my desk in the office, and one day my coworker Tara decided we should have story time.

Because it was one of my favorite books as a little kid. And because it still rules and everybody loves it!

Sometimes I feel like my job is not a real job but like I’m hanging out at my friend’s house playing office. There are days when I’m swamped and stressed and make my motto “work schmork” (pronounced “shmirk,” ya know, to rhyme with “work”). But there are other days when I have a lot of downtime and spend it watching videos of French kitties playing patty-cake or, um, blogging or jamming to Boyz II Men. (“All those times at night when you just hurt me, and just run out with that other fella, Baby I knew about it—I just didn’t care!”)

That stuff seems so NOT like what you’re supposed to do at a job. You don’t need YouTube for a job; you need a briefcase. Forget wasting an afternoon cracking up at photo roundups on Buzzfeed—my dad doesn’t even know what Buzzfeed is! He doesn’t sit around looking at snapshots of Tom Hardy hugging a puppy! (His loss.) He has a J-O-B job—or more accurately, a career, as a chemist—and spends his days um, like, mixing chemicals in beakers and stuff.

Another thing I assume he does not do is pass notes. I did that today. I not only wrote a note to a coworker but also googled “junior high note how to fold” before delivering it.

Actually, the design I found is pretty stellar and took just a few minutes to perfect.

A few precise creases and voilà! A note more adorably folded than any that 13-year-old me ever came up with.

After dropping this beaut on said coworker’s desk, I wandered into the conference room, where a new vodka company was giving our staff free makeup and pouring us matching pink cocktails with these cutesy straws (which, yes, I am saving and plan to reuse on a daily basis).

Sealed with a kiss!

I can’t be sure, but I’d guess that my dad doesn’t do this at work either.

Let’s say you’re putting together a playlist of jams from college—ya know, in case you’re thinking of throwing a college party featuring togas and golf pro/tennis ho outfits and stuff. You’ve added gems by Outkast, Ludacris, Destiny’s Child, Nelly, and so on (“What’s Your Fantasy,” “I’m Sorry Ms. Jackson,” “Gin and Juice,” “California Love,” etc.). Then you go to add the song that most reminds you of frat parties freshman year and all that seems to be available are weirdo fake versions.

Before you go all batshit on Juvenile for not making his music available on Spotify, stop and make sure you have the title right. I know, it seems like “Back That Ass Up” would be pretty hard to screw up, but WRONG! Juvenile is cooler than you (or cooler than moi, anyway) and spells it A-Z-Z: Back That AZZ Up!

So breathe a sigh of relief, get those z’s in there, and add that booty-shaking hit to your list. Or just watch this for some instant audio-visual gratification:

You’re welcome.

In sort-of related news, George Harrison’s songs DO seem to be absent from Spotify. This is a very sad thing, and I’d like to say it’s because of another spelling error on my part, but “Got My Mind Set On You” is pretty straightforward, with zero ghetto-fied spellings. Sniff. I guess if you want to listen to George Harrison, it’s gonna take money, a whole lotta spending money! It’s gonna take plenty of money…

We work hard for the money (so hard for it, honey). But every once in a while, we have to just pause for a moment and remember how effing good we are at accessorizing!

This past weekend, I was in Missouri to do some wedding planning with my engagged (misspelling intentional) sister, Emmalee. While our mom chauffeured us around between bridal boutiques and Emmalee sat with her in the front seat, my baby non-engagged sister, Kathryn, and I sat in the backseat. And I punched her tatas. Because I don’t know, why not?

She didn’t like it.

In fact, she got real, real mad at me and said it felt like I inverted her nipple. I didn’t mean to punch hard enough to invert a nip, but I WAS wearing a big ring, so I didn’t realize my brute force.

At that point, the boob slapping stopped. Until we were in the second shop and got bored while Emmalee was behind the dressing-room curtain. This time, K Dog fought back (with her own blingin’ ring).

We were getting tired and deliriously hungry and low on caffeine. At the end of the day, when we’d stopped for nourishment at Trader Joe’s and I acted ready to whack her again, Kathryn was wearily unamused.

So we called it quits and we made up by taking turns picking up and shaking each other to pop our backs in the produce department.

We also bonded over a mutual hatred of Taylor Swift, while discussing the Grammys during the drive home. (I mean, really, remember that time like three years ago when they had her sing with Stevie Nicks at the Grammys? And Stevie was all, “Um, who the hell is this girl, and why the hell is she on stage with me?” Yeah.)

“WHO still likes her?” I asked. “She is AWFUL.”

“I hate her!” Kathryn agreed. “I wish you would punch her in the boobs and invert her nipples—PERMANENTLY!”

If only.

A few days ago, I sent the invites to my Valentine’s Day party.

This will be my third annual party for VD, and I always have a similar theme: something involving André 3000/Cupid Valentino/The Love Below. Because, HELLO—

that fab album made the oft-hated holiday cool. Ice cold, if you will.

Here is how my invite read:

Good day, good sir (or lady),

Valentine’s Day might not be one of your favorite things. But this year, you are not allowed to be a love hater… because 2013 marks the 10-YEAR ANNIVERSARY of Speakerboxxx/The Love Below!!!! (Yes, you are old.) And that’s something to celebrate!

So please take off your cool and come join us for drinks and treats and dirty jokes involving “VD” and “The Love Below.” Who knows—maybe with the super-suave spirit of Cupid Valentino in our presence, you’ll get lucky and wake up on February 15 thinking, “Where are my panties?”

HEY YA!

Yes, I amuse myself quite a lot! It’s true.

Plus, I make great peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.