A need for revolution's rising
Having finally compiled my various tax forms and worksheets, I decided it was time to buckle down, break out the checkbook, and pay my great country what is due.
I was hesitant at first, I don't like balancing checkbooks or filling out tax forms, because:
A) It is math, and I hate math; for as much as I will formulate World of Warcraft Damage Itemization and Global Cooldown formulas to be a more efficient warlock, math at it's core is that first period of the day, on a rainy Friday, where I don't have my assignment and am feverishly copying the answers from the overhead, hoping the teacher does not notice I didn't actually work the problems out.
Also, it's my worst subject.
B) Not only am I being forced to work out little math worksheets I thought I had left behind years ago, but the products and sums I am working out are my very own moneys. I am forced to watch as my financial resources are marched across a muddy field, behind a hill, and listen to forgiving thunder drown the efficiently mechanical snap of a bullet to their skulls. With every stroke of my pen upon the balance sheet or tax form, I am scratching out tears in the dirt for my lost finances.
So I didn't want to do it, but then, I pondered..."What would Jesus do?"
And I remembered the Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem for the express purpose of paying taxes, and so, yes, Jesus would do his tax forms.
This was the first time I've had to do Federal Tax and income tax across two different states. I was scared, I remembered how awesomely paid I was when I was the garden store delivery driver. I thought that might take me over the state's EZ-form. And then there was the W-2 of the forgotten office technician job, ratcheting up my Wisconsin income by just enough hundreds.
I was damned. Not only did I have those two W-2's for the Federal Government, but I must also declare my Minnesota job (Fuck you, Verizon). And I did.
But then a miracle happened, perhaps Jesus enlightening me in the way He would do taxes: I wasn't claimed by my parents. That had always been the nail in the coffin, when I was in school, and lived at home. It totally screwed up taxes when your parents declare you.
But I'm 23. I was on my own. I trembled as I skipped that checkbox on the sheet. I totaled my lines.
And the Federal Government owed me four figures in refunds. I double, then triple-checked the figures, the lines. It held.
I stood upon a majestic mountain, braced myself in front of amber waves of grain, and let forth a yell through golden valleys, as eagles echoed my cry:
"Victory!"
The establishment was thwarted. I tossed an Earl Gray packet into the toilet to salute our forefathers. You'll not tread on my checking account this year!
Damn the man, save the Republic.
Now born with tax-filing powers far beyond mortal men, I turned my attention to the state forms.
I shot through them like Dick Cheney through a hunting partner.
"Do you want to contribute to the Packer stadium?" Fuck no.
"Do you want to contribute to The Twins dome?" Taxing for baseball is just goddamned un-American, you Reds.
"Do you want to contribute to breast cancer?" N...Well, yes, but not on my tax refund time.
When the dust settled, Minnesota and Wisconsin owed me money.
"Staple or paperclip check here." I don't think so, assholes. I'll take my deposit direct.
I was hesitant at first, I don't like balancing checkbooks or filling out tax forms, because:
A) It is math, and I hate math; for as much as I will formulate World of Warcraft Damage Itemization and Global Cooldown formulas to be a more efficient warlock, math at it's core is that first period of the day, on a rainy Friday, where I don't have my assignment and am feverishly copying the answers from the overhead, hoping the teacher does not notice I didn't actually work the problems out.
Also, it's my worst subject.
B) Not only am I being forced to work out little math worksheets I thought I had left behind years ago, but the products and sums I am working out are my very own moneys. I am forced to watch as my financial resources are marched across a muddy field, behind a hill, and listen to forgiving thunder drown the efficiently mechanical snap of a bullet to their skulls. With every stroke of my pen upon the balance sheet or tax form, I am scratching out tears in the dirt for my lost finances.
So I didn't want to do it, but then, I pondered..."What would Jesus do?"
And I remembered the Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem for the express purpose of paying taxes, and so, yes, Jesus would do his tax forms.
This was the first time I've had to do Federal Tax and income tax across two different states. I was scared, I remembered how awesomely paid I was when I was the garden store delivery driver. I thought that might take me over the state's EZ-form. And then there was the W-2 of the forgotten office technician job, ratcheting up my Wisconsin income by just enough hundreds.
I was damned. Not only did I have those two W-2's for the Federal Government, but I must also declare my Minnesota job (Fuck you, Verizon). And I did.
But then a miracle happened, perhaps Jesus enlightening me in the way He would do taxes: I wasn't claimed by my parents. That had always been the nail in the coffin, when I was in school, and lived at home. It totally screwed up taxes when your parents declare you.
But I'm 23. I was on my own. I trembled as I skipped that checkbox on the sheet. I totaled my lines.
And the Federal Government owed me four figures in refunds. I double, then triple-checked the figures, the lines. It held.
I stood upon a majestic mountain, braced myself in front of amber waves of grain, and let forth a yell through golden valleys, as eagles echoed my cry:
"Victory!"
The establishment was thwarted. I tossed an Earl Gray packet into the toilet to salute our forefathers. You'll not tread on my checking account this year!
Damn the man, save the Republic.
Now born with tax-filing powers far beyond mortal men, I turned my attention to the state forms.
I shot through them like Dick Cheney through a hunting partner.
"Do you want to contribute to the Packer stadium?" Fuck no.
"Do you want to contribute to The Twins dome?" Taxing for baseball is just goddamned un-American, you Reds.
"Do you want to contribute to breast cancer?" N...Well, yes, but not on my tax refund time.
When the dust settled, Minnesota and Wisconsin owed me money.
"Staple or paperclip check here." I don't think so, assholes. I'll take my deposit direct.