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Tax Trauma

I got my taxes back today. NO, not the tax refund. I got my taxes back from the accountant I paid good money to tell me I should pay George Bush three thousand dollars so he can keep killing innocent Iraqi civilians. This is not good. I am freaking out.

Last week I gathered all the appropriate forms and files, took them to my Tax Man.
"No problem" he said."
"Looks like you'll be getting a refund" he said.
"I'll call you in a few days" he said.
Cut to me in the tax man's office asking the receptionist if I heard her correctly. "THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! Are you out of your fucking mind?" I continue to berate her as if she is personally responsible for this current state of affairs. "Um.. uh" she slowly backs away from me, eyes sliding from side to side, searching desparately for help. A security button perhaps?
"Mr Tax Man isn't here right now, but I could take your number down and have him call you back."

Riiight.. As I am getting nowhere, and it's becoming increasingly obvious she isn't going to oblige me by throwing my taxes away, I decide to take my tantrum to the confines of my iron tent. Once inside my car, I completely lose it. I have been working my ass off for months, to pay off every single bill sent to me, so I could move to New York with a clean slate.. and now... and now... (think sobs, big crocodile tears trickling slowly down my face in a Demi Moore/Ghost sort of way) it was all for fucking nothing! I'm right back where I started from. It never ends. I could be a homeless person addicted to crack, living on panhandled change in a van down by the river and owe less money than right now.

I am in the middle of moving to New York City from the vast wasteland that is the Utah desert. I was counting on my refund to be a nice little nest egg in case work doesn't come my way right out of the shoot. Just when I thought I was breaking even, God decided to put the kibosh on that good fortune, by costing me a fortune. "She had sex with a married guy in her early twenties.. She will suffer now." Devious scheming bastard, God is. I immediately call my new husband "The Surge" so I can take it out on him. This generally makes me feel better, but not today.
"It will be okay" he says.
"No it won't!" I scream at the top of my lungs.
"You've got to calm down" he says.
"No I don't!" I begin sobbing in what I feel is a very heartwrenching fashion.
"It's not the end of the world" he says. And this does it. The Surge can afford to say this as he has a newly acquired anti-depression medication habit. Now The Surge is disgustingly calm and not reacting at all to my obvious despair. I pull out the big guns.
"I am finished with life!" Perhaps he'll worry for my safety. I am determined to take this as far as I can. I am pissed. The world must feel my anger. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!.. I hang up on the newly zen, green tea guzzling Surge and continue my rant.. Please tell me you've been there. Sobbing crazily, angry at the world, why me, it never ends, I'm so tired, I just fucking give up. But not before I put in a full day at work, so I can pay my taxes of course. The feds will take money from my paycheck and leave me just enough to cut them another check for the goddamn taxes I owe from 2004!

I am having a full blown anxiety attack. I think. I've never had one before, but I'm feeling very dramatic. Anything could happen. I can't catch my breath and am glad for it. It makes the situation takes on the tragic tone I feel it warrants. Somebody better pay attention to me! I drive fast and loose.. Maybe a car crash will make me feel a bit better. Nothing serious. Something a notch or two above a fender bender ought to do the trick. Something that will keep me in a coma for a few months. I could get paid through work insurance (Uncle Sam's cashola!) and would have to be fed through an IV tube. I could come out five, maybe even TEN pounds lighter than today. Dramatic photos of my crunched car will be passed around my hospital room as friends stare, horrified that I survived such a mangled mess. Outpourings of sympathy will ensue. I will be heralded as courageous AND slender in all social circles. This scenario has possibilities.

Feeling light headed, I walk into work, make-up cried off, not caring about the puffy, mottled mask that has become my face. If I display my pain prominently, perhaps I'll get sent home. Then I can watch Oprah without my manager bugging me about insignificant shit like what story we should lead the newscast with. I'm watching Oprah for godsake. Can you not see this woman Oprah is interviewing has had plastic surgery 28 times? I think she's addicted. I am busy.

Throughout the work day I wear my pain like a badge.
"Did you hear what happened to me?" I whisper conspiratorally with coworkers.
"I owe three thousand dollars" I announce dramatically. For the most part, nobody shows any real interest. My car collision fantasies fade and it's just another day. Another wild card life has dealt. "It's not what life hands you, it's how you react", these happy-all-the-time do-gooders tell me. Fuck that! I'm all drama baby. But I have to go. I'm typing this from work and Oprah is starting.

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Reader Comments (4)

Found this one I wrote last year... obviously.. what with the taxes and all.
November 11, 2005 | Registered CommenterMonicaBielanko
"I live in a van down by the river.." awesome.
Yeah taxes suck hairy assholes..."Taxman" by the Beatles said it best.
We should never owe money to this freakin government..they take so much as it is! Urgghhhh. Am feeling your frustration as my boss rants behind me about some bullshit client who refuses to pay the ridiculous legal fees we charge. In the end its all the same, we work work harder.....
November 11, 2005 | Unregistered CommenterJulia
Yuck the IRS! Those bastards!

And "Van Down by the river." That is excellent. It just flooded a bunch of old memories for me. A friend of mine and I made up a song called that. LOL My best friend was dating basically a homeless man for a while. Was quite weird. He lived in his van everywhere, even down by the river. LOL
November 12, 2005 | Registered CommenterFiabug
Classic story, and classic response. I love it.
November 16, 2005 | Unregistered Commentercchild

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