I suddenly have empathy for all things EMO, because no one understands my art.
There’s nothing I hate more than tax time. Well except for going to the post office. I fucking hate the post office.
Oh, and I hate grocery shopping.
And the doctor’s office waiting room.
So, yeah, I HATE STUFF.
Anyway. Taxes suck. Luckily an old co-worker of mine is an accountant. Every year I have to track her down. I suspect she changes her phone number and email just to keep me from bugging her about finances. Or I just suck at organization and lose the info. Good think I have trusty AK to keep track of people for me. He’s way better than any iPhone assistant app.
“Hey, what’s Angie’s email address? I need to see if she can do my taxes. Not DO as in have sex. I do not want Angie having sex with my taxes.”
He laughs… jerk.
“Can you imagine how awkward that would be? Ohh, Angie, sorry that my taxes gave you the paper-cuts. And what if you can’t treat vaginal paper-cuts?”
“Sarah, I’m trying not to imagine this.”
“No need. I’m sketching a picture of it now. I’ll take a photo and send it over.”
And to think he didn’t even appreciate the drawing. People need visuals. Duh.
Nice drawing. Is that herpes on her lips?
Obviously you went to the wrong school. You should have been at one of those art colleges for sure. I hear artists make bank… or maybe they all starve to death. I hear both.