H&R BLOCKingmywilltolive

Dear Brianna,

It's that time of year again. The hair pulling, teeth grinding, number crunching urge to hang yourself time of year. TAX SEASON.

No joke, I made somewhere around $5,000 dollars last year. In a year, that is all I made. I'm a disgrace to all people. And yet, I still need to file my tax papers. Why? Because the man makes me.

Well this year, I'm stickin' it to the man. I'm rollin' up in there George Harrison style and tellin' that taxman "I'm gonna walk up to you and you're sure as hell not gonna tax my feet just cause you're the tax man, yeah yeah yeah, the tax man!" Then I'll throw a roll of pennies and he'll go fetch it like the dog he is. While his back is turned, I'll run across the street to the Duane Reade and sit in the window and eat some Fiddle Faddle until I see that he's emerged from his dark H&R lair, at which point I'll pop up from the lawn chair that I stole from the back of the store and run towards him. He'll be walkin' down the street towards his 1997 Toyota Eclipse and I'll get all up on him and whisper in his ear "you drive a car, but they don't tax your street, cause you're the taxman, yeah yeah yeah, the taxman." And when he turns around to see who's there I'll disappear in a puff of smoke because while I was sitting in Duane Reade I bought and read a magazine about magic and now I'm a fucking wizard. He'll turn back around and I'll reappear because I've haven't perfected the staying invisible part of the trick yet because the article was long and I got bored, and he'll take out his keys and bend over to unlock the door but will be distracted by the dime, nickel, and four pennies that I taped to the door handle and while he uses his dirty taxman nails to peel the tape from the door I'll stand behind him and yell "Nineteen for you and one for me, taxman, yeah yeah yeah, taxman!" I will then extend my arm and obtain an empty taxicab, which I will take to the end of the block because I only have $3.00 after buying Fiddle Faddle and a magic magazine and I'll take the subway home.

Why would I go to all this trouble, you ask? Why would I spend an entire day of my life badgering a man who just writes numbers on papers all day? Why wouldn't I fill out the forms myself? Well the answer is simple. I hate numbers. I hate money and they both give me panic attacks. I also hate people are are really good with numbers because I'm really bad with numbers and I'm jealous and instead of respecting them I just get angry because I have anger issues. Well, you know what? Fuck all this. My cat's doing my taxes.






















Love,
Katie

(This post is just a joke. I don't really hate taxmen, I actually respect anyone who can work with numbers and not start to cry almost immediately.)