Death's Bedfellow

I love tax time.

Or, more specifically, I love tax time this year. I'd heard rumours in the past of people receiving substantial tax returns, but I refused to believe it and could not understand why people would tell me such blatant lies. I had yet to experience this myth and therefore it could simply not exist. Such is the 'If I can't see it, it's not there' manner in which I live my life.

Then, something miraculous happened - I found myself in the unfamiliar position of having a job where they actually knew how to tax my income properly. I has resigned myself to the fact that financial ineptitude of my superiors was just a normal part of employed life. How was I to know there was a whole other world out there? Sure, I'd heard whispers in the wind, but I simply took that as signs of a burgeoning mental breakdown.

So as a sat myself down for an entertaining evening of tax return-related frivolity, little did I know the revelations in store for me. For, as I reached its conclusion, prepared for the inevitable "You get $100", or "Hey, you owe us money, you bastard", I found myself presented with the taxation equivalent of a omnipresent figure tossing a sack with a dollar sign on it at me. For those who don't understand the symbolism, the sack represents money. I know, it's sometimes difficult decipher the poetry in my words.

Now, I'm not letting the fact that it's actually my money that I'm receiving put a dampner on things. Although, the fact that I wasn't presented with a novelty sized cheque to mark to occasion is a slight sore point, I will admit.

I managed to even be smart about it too. I put away the majority of the cash into my savings before, in all the fiscal excitement, I went crazy and bought several dozen collectible plates. Or a chandelier. Or an extensive supply of fancy toilet paper and ornamental soaps. But with the money I did allow myself to use for shameless splurging, I did something that anyone who knows me will be shocked, gasping and fainting to the floor, over how out of character it was. I donated it to an orphanage.


Hahaha...no. I went on a DVD binge.

I know I must treasure these precious, joyful tax memories, because I'm sure next year I'll be cursing the existence of Australian economic law and calling into question the Queen's honour with a colourful turn of phrase (hint: rhymes with whore...wait...).