Don’t you just love doing taxes? I sure do. There’s something very spiritual about it, what with the whole “rendering to Caesar what is Caesar’s” business. If it’s good enough for Jesus, then it’s good enough for me.
(Oops! My sarcasm font isn’t working.)
What I meant to say is that doing taxes is on par with sliding naked down a giant razor blade into a pool of rubbing alcohol.
I approach tax preparation in much the same way I approach exercise, as I see they bear an uncanny resemblance. For starters, I avoid eating egg salad sandwiches before doing either one, because I learned the hard way that both a treadmill run and itemizing deductions are likely to turn my stomach, and there is no need to give Ol’ Man Regurgitation a head start.
So much detail. So little patience.
On the plus side, there are brief flashes of…
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