There’s nothing I hate more than tax time. Well except for going to the post office. I fucking hate the post office.
Oh, and I hate grocery shopping.
And the doctor’s office waiting room.
So, yeah, I HATE STUFF.
Anyway. Taxes suck. Luckily an old co-worker of mine is an accountant. Every year I have to track her down. I suspect she changes her phone number and email just to keep me from bugging her about finances. Or I just suck at organization and lose the info. Good think I have trusty AK to keep track of people for me. He’s way better than any iPhone assistant app.
“Hey, what’s Angie’s email address? I need to see if she can do my taxes. Not DO as in have sex. I do not want Angie having sex with my taxes.”
He laughs… jerk.
“Can you imagine how awkward that would be? Ohh, Angie, sorry that my taxes gave you the paper-cuts. And what if you can’t treat vaginal paper-cuts?”
“Sarah, I’m trying not to imagine this.”
“No need. I’m sketching a picture of it now. I’ll take a photo and send it over.”
And to think he didn’t even appreciate the drawing. People need visuals. Duh.