Tax Season is My Dementor: Who Needs a Soul and a Savings Account?
Today is tax day. It is also also known as “the day when I’m so unable to CAN that I refuse to CAN and my accountant already knows so she filed an extension for me.” I hate tax season with the intensity of 1,000 papercuts. HATE HATE HATE.
This is me every year after paying my taxes.
Ever since I started working for myself full-time (2010), tax season has been the Voldemort in my life. It is my boogeyman. It is the monster in my closet. It is the edges I’m afraid of losing. It’s the thought of flying roaches or giant rats. It petrifies me every year. It is also the only time I wish I had kids already. They’d be great write-offs.
In my W2 life, I got taxes taken out each check. It means I never really SAW the money I was losing, unless I peeped the statement I got. Which, I didn’t. Now in this 1099 life, you get lured into a false sense of baller status, getting every check without anything removed. So every April, IRS shows up talmbout “so run me my coins.” And then you hit a giant *Wall Slide* because just when you thought your savings account was doing something, you get your tax bill.
It is one of those necessary evils. There are few things that are guaranteed in this here life, and that is taxes and death. I know better than to avoid taxes, because we all know that the IRS will get theirs, come hell or high water. They are the ULTIMATE kings of the shakedown. They get theirs against all odds. People have gotten off for heinous crimes like murder, money laundering, and being professional criminals only to be caught up by the IRS for tax evasion and end up behind bars anyway (See: Al Capone).
SO I KNOW. And I take them seriously. My longtime accountant (who is so dope) knows how much I dread this necessity, because she gets to listen to my whining. She hits me with that “Let me know when you’re in a good mood” text and I immediately slide off the chair I’m sitting on, laying on the ground for a few minutes. Every time.
Last year, I made more money than I ever had. Because: book deal. And brand stuff. I was like YEAHHHH BOYYYYYY. But like the Great Philosopher BIGGIEocrates said: “Mo Money, Mo Problems.” It is a life truth.
I got my tax bill back and I was like “Oh cool. this isn’t bad.” My accountant goes “multiply that by four because what I sent you is how much you will owe quarterly.” I LEGIT hollered. One of those soul wails. Jesus wept with me. I owe HOW MUCH??? IS THAT AMERICAN DOLLARS? TELL ME IT’S PESOS. OR THAI MONEY. Jesu Kristi Olugbala on that cross, what is life? This was me:
You wanna talk about sticker shock? Yo. And yes, she got all my deductions and even still. Here I am. She goes: “But remember the days when you used to be happy because you’d get a little $750 refund? You have come so far! You’ve literally started from the bottom now you’re here.”
For real. She’s right. She has literally seen my glow up in numbers. She remembers the times when what I made TOTAL for the year is what I owe back this year.
Still, that won’t make writing this check easy. Savings account gon be echoing like the Chamber of Secrets.
If y’all need me, I’ll be figuring out how to make my ass clap so I can make some extra coins on the side. “Where’s Luvvie?” “On a pole.” “Why?” “Because taxes.” “Oh I understand. What’s her stage name?” etc etc
Who was it that said “Tax time is the only time Democrats become Republicans?” Accurate!
It’s ok. I’ll pay what I owe as an upstanding citizen who wants to contribute to the greater good. BUT I WILL COMPLAIN THE ENTIRE TIME. Every year. Like clockwork.