This year, I’ve been sweating doing my taxes. I kept thinking, “Shit, I don’t want to write some big, fucking check to the IRS. No fucking way. I’ll do it the last possible second.”

In my crazy-ass brain, I was re-living all the salary I used to make, the unemployment benefits, the thing with the thing with the lawyers.
Lawyers, guns (OK, knives) and money.

Only, dumbshit, I forgot. Time has elapsed. That was then, this is now, yada fucking yada. I moved here, when the legal gravy train had stopped running. I took my lazy, sweet-ass, luxuriating-in-the-California-sun time getting a J O B.

In short, the federal govmint and the state of Cali, both OWE me a fucking pile of bills. Benjamins and whatnot. What a dink I am to not have filed sooner.

The funniest thing to me, I took a look at my adjusted gross income for 2004, and fucking a, I had mounted the six-figure fantasy. I was taxed accordingly. But, much more relaxed and all, I welcomed 2005 at exactly zero times that amount. Eventually, I recouped somewhere in the national average, above the “you want fries with that” standard but not by much.

I haven’t been so excited since my first real job was earning a whopping $13,000 per annum, and I cashed an IRS refund of like $426. Then, as now, drinks are on fucking me and Uncle Sam.