Remember last year, in early MAY, when I was worried about the possibility of being hunted down by FBI agents?
If I am shortly arrested and thrown into prison, the reason will be: I STILL haven't filed my taxes. This unpleasant job has been simmering on the backburner for nearly three weeks. By now, the overcooked unpleasantness of those irksome federal fees is beginning to exude quite the repulsive aroma. My sixth sense tells me that the concoction is going to implode at any moment, and FBI agents will suddenly burst into the music library, or violate the sacred silence of the deserted HFAC in search of me. My life will turn into a tale of hobbit vs. Black Rider--even my bedroom won't be safe, although to reenact the bed-stabbing, mattress-demolishing, feather-flying scene, my apartment would have to be a lot bigger. My room is so tiny that two FBI agents of smallish stature would barely be able to stand over my bed if they squeezed.
Yes, well, today (which we'll conveniently forget to mention is just two days shy of August), following and much surpassing the example I set myself last year, I finally filed my taxes.
Better late than never, eh? No, no, bad motto. (High, fake voice: "Bad llama!")
Maybe next year I'll get them filed by... Christmas?
P.S. These are the last words I shall ever write as a person who has lived her whole life in Utah and yet has never ventured within the state confines of Nevada. Yes, tomorrow I will in fact be discovering whether Vegas really does exist. Because who knows? It might be a hoax.