The latest chapter in my inexorable disappearance from this mortal plane: I'm sitting at the table in the breakroom when the damn table collapses. I'm struggling to get the thing level only to find that the part that collapsed was held together with masking tape. Nothing like quality control, you know? But that's not the funny part. That came when a co-worker (whom I not-so-affectionally refer to as Tammy Tutone; if you saw her, you'd understand) decided to just sit there like nothing happened; like I wasn't even there.

Times like this that I'm convinced that I died years ago, but no one has had the testicular matter to tell me.