Things that happened when I worked 70 hours of overtime in less than two weeks in January.

Cold Popeye's chicken fingers dipped in cold Popeye's mashed potatoes was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner. Twice.

I got dressed from the load of laundry in the dryer, like it was my bedroom bureau.

When my boss momentarily forgot about my crazy deadlines, and asked if I would be "going home to PA this weekend?," I snapped "No! I will be coming HERE this weekend! AND next weekend! AND the one after that!" Like a crazy person. 

Half a bag of chipnitzel cookies was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.

My hair... suffered.

I began to fondly recall that one Saturday morning when I got to sleep until 10 AM. Before going in to work for nine hours.

Barbecue potato chips and dip was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.

I forgot to look at the Oscar nominations until noon on the day they were announced, instead of bounding out of bed to check them.

I left my flat iron on while I went to work for 15 hours. Note: apartment did not catch fire.

I lost so very many Trivia Crack games by not playing them in time.

Half a bag of microwave popcorn and some cheese was deemed a perfectly acceptable dinner.

After working 12 hours on MLKJ Day, I muttered "This is not what they meant by 'a day of service!'"

The day I left work at 9 PM, I thought to myself "I can't believe I'm getting out of here so early!"

I once considered just staying at the office through the night, but I knew my co-worker would notice that my clothes had not changed. And sure enough, the next morning she checked my clothes.

I still managed to watch the six-hour Season 2 of The Fall, which, I guess goes to show that Netflix is like the house in Vegas: it always wins in the end.