Taxes Are Eating My Weekend.

Yes. I had a busy week last week. Busier than normal, I mean, because I am covering someone else’s car jockey shifts which means I only didn’t work a 12-hour day on Wednesday. Next week will be the same. The Thursday guy is (I think) on safari in Africa. Maybe I made that up because he has cool aviator sunglasses and a bomber jacket and looks like a really accomplished nature photographer. I don’t know.

Anyway, I decided to have a really relaxing weekend because the week kicked my butt and I just wanted to be ready for next week, but I also needed to do my taxes. So, blithely, I thought, “Oh, I’ll just get them done quickly.” So I got one of those online programs that does the math for you, and I got all my papers and went to work.

FML. The government wants fourteen hundred dollars from me. Which seems really weird, because I am not exactly rolling in the bucks. I assumed I have screwed up. I tweaked the numbers. They still want over a grand. It’s been six hours of tweaking and it is just getting worse.

So I called my dad, and he will come help me, because my dad rules at math, and government stuff.

I hope he doesn’t come over when E and his friends are fixing our new barbecue. Which E got for free because he rules (and has a rich guitar buddy who is always giving people his it’s-not-first-rate-it’s-a-year-old stuff.)

Or maybe I do want my dad here when they are fixing it, because then I could be sure that no one would die in a fiery explosion. The barbecue needs to be fitted for propane. I get nervous around propane. E’s friend Russell said it wouldn’t blow up, but his flatulence is more powerful than his mind. E’s other friend Scott is coming over, and he has a giant brain, but it is full of computer guy stuff. Dad probably knows what to do for sure.

So instead of relaxing, I am worried that I am going to be a homeless person in order to also be a law abiding taxpayer, and that I will die when E explodes the barbecue. Or that he’ll set the house on fire before Mel has his fire escape and he’ll kill him, too. Which would make us homeless, again (unless already dead). Or that one of the pets will get hurt.

This is too stressful, this worrying. I am going to eat some chips.

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