I mentally weigh the cost of traveling against my free-floating economic anxiety multiplied by the square root of how much I have to pay in taxes divided by whether or not I think the world ends in 2012. It's hard to say where the math ends up.
I've just finished doing my taxes all by myself for the very first time without the help of tax consultants or my grumpy father or hallucinogenic drugs and I am so (naturally) high from the experience that it's all I can do to keep myself from levitating off my desk chair and into the atmosphere, aglow with glee that at the age of 28 I have finally mastered mathematical problems first introduced to me in the third grade.
You can always tell when you're talking to someone who's been audited by the IRS. You mention those three letters and beads of sweat pop out on their brow. Their eyes take on that panicked bulge to them, the look you usually see on sheep right before they mow all of their wool off - the one that says, "You're going to leave me naked and I really don't understand why."
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