Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Okay, NOW I'm pissed off

So I admit, even as I’ve been hauling out boxes of paperwork and trying to get this shit organized for this ridiculous audit, I’ve been putting off looking at my actual 2008 return, the one they’re auditing. I seemed to vaguely recall that I didn’t make much money that year – remember, that was Cancer and Brain Injury Year, so for literally half the year, I was out of commission. Bleeding on the brain will do that to a person, not to mention surgery and 7 weeks of daily zappings of radiation.

But I wasn’t 100% sure. Was THAT the year I did some work early on for Accenture? Was there something else? Not sure.

Until now.

And I’m pissed.

Because I did just look at my return, and when I saw how little money I really did make? What. The. Fuck. Not only is it a ridiculously small sum, which pisses me off, but the fact that the IRS is auditing ME over this piddly-ass sum of money, well, that’s just infuriating. Our tax dollars at work.

I don’t want to say how much I actually made that year, because it’s kind of ridiculous, but suffice it to say that even if I had had monkeys prepare my tax return, there is no chance I’ll owe the IRS an iota of money. In fact, they might owe ME. Between the money pit that is my house, and the insane medical bills, and the lack of income, I might just send a bill to the IRS when this is over for WASTING MY FUCKING TIME.

On the bright side, as I’m researching this crap I am discovering all sorts of interesting tidbits about what the IRS can and can’t do, which I’m eager to share with my sixteens of readers, in case you too ever find yourselves in this unfortunate position. Because I’m just helpful that way. And bitter. And oh yeah, did I mention, pissed off?? Just checking.

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Okay, I’m back

I know, I know, that was quick. And as usual, I know what you’re thinking:

“But Miss Tasha – we be all worried ‘bout you! And here you be, waltzin’ in like nobody’s business! What be up with dat, girlfriend?”

(For some reason, grammar goes out the window when my sixteens of readers speak to me. I know, I don’t quite get it either.)

I think this is a large part of why the Universe hates me – because I’m the most stubborn person in creation, and I refuse to let The Man keep me down. I guess I’m kind of like the evil villain in a slasher movie who won’t stay dead even though he’s been shot multiple times, bathed in acid, and hung and quartered. Err, or I’m like a Weeble-Wobble. Take your pick.

Plus the billions of emails I’ve gotten from friends offering sympathy, advice, their accountant husbands and friends, alcohol, flamethrowers, etc., has warmed my soul. Truly. Whereas yesterday I was despondent, today I am….okay, still despondent, but writing up in my head a post about the amusing conversations I’ve had with friends and my brother about the IRS. My brain will not be stopped. Plus, as always, I have some useful Tips from Miss Tasha, for those of you also facing this idiocracy known as an IRS audit. To wit, this is what I’ve learned from searching the internets:

  • If you’re being audited, you’re screwed. Be paranoid and suspicious and realize that they’re out to get you.
  • Be polite to the auditor – they’re just doing their jobs.
  • Their goal is to trip you up, so say nothing, use one-word answers.
  • Be open and forthright about everything.

Umm, okay. I guess.

As for why I’m being audited, I finally figured out the reason. The IRS can’t understand why someone of my brilliance and overall fabulousness isn’t rolling in money and fame and fortune; hence, they assume that I am, and are coming over to search the premises. Or as my dear friend Motya put it –

“I blame Komen. The IRS is thinking, "Oh, Miss Tasha has the cancer, so she must be swimming in monetary donations that she has failed to report. We'll get her!"

Damn you Komen! Yet another thing you’re responsible for. But yes, I’ll be dressing up mighty fine on Audit Day, in one of my many pieces of Fuck Cancer attire. That way Ms. Audit Lady will know exactly what she’s dealing with: a crazy person.

Next up: Conversations with my brother, and my potential tactics for dealing with Audit Day

P.S. For the purposes of this blog post, please substitute "Audit Alert" for Rumspringa. Thank you.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011


So here we are. Or rather, here I am. I was thinking yesterday about the bad luck I’ve had over the years – I can’t even call it a “run of bad luck” – because that implies something more temporary, not years of abject shittiness. And yes, my bad luck has stretched back so far that I don’t even recall the last time it wasn’t a constant presence in my life. Where I wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder to see what would come next. Where I didn’t have friends telling me that I seemed to be cursed.

I’m sure some of these things have been of my own making, due to my own poor decisions. Dating assholes who turned out to be bisexual sociopathic liars trolling for hookups on Adult Friend Finder? Yeah, my bad. Winding up with asshole tenant Katherine Hart who trashed the place and skipped out on rent? Yep, me again, too trusting. But all the other shit – the bathroom ceiling collapsing, the crash that totaled my car, the job crap, the IRS losing my tax returns for 2 years, all the other stuff like that that happens on a DAILY basis around here – and then let’s not forget the disfiguring cancer, along with the bike crash/broken collarbone/brain injury – I’d say that’s all not my fault. That’s fate or whatever you believe in kicking me in the teeth, generally when I’m already down.

But I soldiered on. I did. Even when The Cancer came along, I thought – well, there’s some benefit to having had a lifetime of continual bad luck, because I bounce back from these things pretty quickly. The job/money stuff? Panicky, but I thought – I have so many irons in the fire, I’m damn good at what I do, something will come to fruition.

So what did it take, after all these years, to finally make me lose hope? A letter in the mail on Saturday, telling me that lucky me was selected for a fucking audit by the IRS. Yes, an audit – which on the surface is kind of laughable, because I hardly make enough money to make it worth their while. Though maybe they think I’m lying about that, and have a fountain spewing gold in my basement. Who knows.

But yes, that’s what did it. And it’s not even the actual audit that’s done it. Hell, I don’t cheat on my taxes – I don’t make enough money to make it necessary for me to try to conjure up ways to cheat. Besides, even if they decide I do owe them money, so what? You can’t get blood from a turnip, as they say.

It’s more the timing of it. Because here I’ve been humming along with the work/job hunt, lots of interesting prospects out there, I’ve been talking to people about their potential needs, etc. – all things sufficient to give me a slight glimmer of hope in the darkness. And now, with this shit, all that comes to a screeching halt. Because this IRS agent is coming to my house in 3 weeks and I now have to spend all my time between now and then trying to find my damn paperwork from 2008 and 2009. Because yes, they apparently look at 2 years at a time.

And oh yes, did I mention that that was all when I had the whole cancer/bike crash/brain injury thing going on? So not only did I not have a clue what the hell was going on around me at the time, but any paperwork from then is buried amidst piles and stacks of medical bills. This will be my life for the next 3 weeks, and it probably still won’t be enough. And I’m at the point where I’m losing any real-life friends I once had, because I’m getting scared to leave the house, as it seems like something bad happens every time I do. Though clearly the crap luck finds me at home too.

So it’s not the audit. It’s the fact that I was done with the IRS shit a few months ago, or so I thought, after dealing with it for several years, with them losing and misdirecting paperwork, erroneously freezing this account or that - in other words not knowing what the hell they were doing. I was done. Now this. And the fact that it comes along at just this time – that part makes me feel like Charlie Brown, where I think okay, this time I’ll kick that damn ball, and then fate comes along and yanks everything away and says ha, not so fast! You didn’t really think your life would improve slightly, did you? You fool.

I finally understand how hard the universe is working to destroy me. How much it hates me. That it's conspiring against me. And crushing me. Crushing my soul. And it's working.

What does this all mean? Right now, it means I have no hope left in me. I'm fat, surly, broke, single, beaten down, and tired. Very tired. It means I’m on the verge of giving up. I don’t know what that means exactly, other than that right now I don’t have it in me to write anything that approaches dry wit or is vaguely entertaining. The well is dry. That could change tomorrow, or next week, or never. I don’t know. I just know that until it does, I’m checking out.