crazy not to know (crunch not to identify (chug, chug) that stupid sound. With the poor light, and the cold, and the spiders, and the ghosts. Now it all makes sense. I hate doing my taxes. He also doesnt seem to get much entertainment sitting next to me in the high chair, watching me dig through my file box of 07 papers, scribbling things down on my worksheets. Arent I blessed to have such a bountiful life?
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I just dont like to do it all at once. My checkbook started the year with a negative balance. His first 3 days on the planet. I cant emphasize enough how much this bothers. No, what gets me is the agonizing. This year has been a unique challenge in that Leonard, now 5 months old, doesnt really appreciate me spending hours away from him (let alone 30 minutes even if Im just in the next room. I waited to see that positive balance.
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At quarter til three. Funny, since every time I do my taxes, I scold myself for waiting this long. Its got to be in a box in the attic, alongside the bank statements, just at the top of the stairs. I feel like I just won a silly game show. Like by almost twenty grand. My books are off. And yet, I continued on, crunching these ridiculous numbers.
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only a little jaunt down a side path, part of my necessary procrastination. It was bugging me, that out-of-focus dialogue, that droning noise, that curiously familiar and annoying sound effect. And if I forget, the bank does its nifty little overdraft protection trick to keep me in the black. And yet, mid-March always finds me scrambling like this. I was talking to a friend yesterday morning about our shared loathing for tax time. I was totally unprepared for. (Where is David Lasley when you need him)? Somehow, a little organization makes me feel like I wont be in such a state next year. Eventually, I had to tell myself to relax my stomach muscles. The unwavering truth of it all. And I didnt quit tallying up the total until I reached the end of the register. That racket is none other than Who Wants to Be A damn Millionaire.