I just did my taxes. I told myself that was all I would have to accomplish this weekend, and I'm pretty proud of myself that I got up first thing and did it. It took me four freakin' hours, and we are officially busted.
I feel ill.
I'm going to go swing my body around a bit and see if I can't work off some of this anxiety so I don't wind up hurling in my lap this afternoon.
Later, if I get drunk enough, I'll tell y'all (happy, Amalie?) about the kitchen, but in the meantime...
BLEAH!
I feel ill.
I'm going to go swing my body around a bit and see if I can't work off some of this anxiety so I don't wind up hurling in my lap this afternoon.
Later, if I get drunk enough, I'll tell y'all (happy, Amalie?) about the kitchen, but in the meantime...
BLEAH!
Boogah-boogah, I say to the IRS -- and the Mass. Department of Revenue, while I'm at it.
Why y'all gotta make it so hard on a pimp?
2 comments:
Yes, quite. Thanks for asking.
But not pleased for your taxing time. I've owed so much the last few years, that now I have a savings account just for it-- but watching it go from full speed ahead to zero is depressing.
Blech is just like belch only different, see? I prefer to do the drinkin' before the tax returnin'. Makes the pain a bit duller.
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