Death and Taxes

Daniel Defoe, in The Political History of the Devil, 1726:

“Things as certain as death and taxes, can be more firmly believed.”

There you have it.  Mercifully this year, we were given the Ides of April on a Saturday. I haven’t made time to do shit this year yet, depressed by such notable items as:

5) Having to work on taxes.  I tried really hard to avoid doing it, which is why I finished working on them on the 17th and addressed them in the morning today.  I wanted to have them ready to mail Monday, to avoid the Tuesday rush.  When I plan it works if the universe fucker doesn’t fuck it up.  Oh.  Well, that explains why my plans usually don’t happen as planned unless they’re nefarious.  And the universe fucker fucking up my plans would be another reason for my depression, so that’d be 5.5.

4) Undersleeping, I guess, although my brain seems to still marginally function (an easily debatable point) on 4 to 6 hours a night.

3) Vitamin D deficiency, which I’ve been told is a reason for my depression.  I call that possibly partly true with a high probability of being bull shit.  Because:  Vitamin D deficiency doesn’t explain why the depression happens for a long time during which I can’t remember when I didn’t feel like worthless shit smashed under more worthy shit, and then I get seasons when I can actually enjoy things that are good in my life and even forget that I was depressed a month ago.  Vitamin D deficiency also doesn’t explain why the depression comes in momentary waves, or why the seasons of depression are punctuated by the episodic mania I use to clean my house when I have that extra boost of energy to rage against the universe fucker and my entire family in their conspiracy to mess everything up faster than I can gather my mania and wits at the same time and then harness them constructively to break out the bleach.  We’re out of bleach, and I’m out of mania.  And wits.  But I do like to clean, just because I like to look behind myself and see how nice it looks in the little tiny corner I managed to get to look pretty.  If I ever do make it look pretty  Vitamin D may help with depression, but it’s not a cure as far as I know, nor does it stabilize the mania.  Maybe if I threw the pills at the mess makers and told them to [pick up/clean up/put away/throw away] their shit, I might have more time to [pick up/pay for/repair/throw away] other shit that’s less specifically “ours.”

I have a friend who jokes that the cures for depression are all the things the doctors tell you are bad for you.  I’m not a smoker but I’ve been told it’s enjoyable.  That hit of nicotine must be good, or smokers could quit before some of them get cancer or emphysema or COPD.  My asthma is bad enough when I’m stressed that I don’t even want to try that pleasure.  But doctors say that smoking is bad, so it must be good for some people.  Doctors pick on our diet and exercise too.  Don’t eat bacon.  Don’t eat eggs.  Then the government gets a payoff and they tell us to eat bacon because high protein diet.  Then the government gets a payoff and they tell us to eat eggs because they’re a complete protein and a compact, quick, easy meal.  I think the government requires tobacco to be treated with things that cause cancer or exacerbate it.  Don’t smoke pot or consume it in any other way, although the chronic may cure chronic pain, relieve eye pressure from glaucoma, help with digestion and loss of appetite when people feel too sick to eat, etc.  Of course, there are risks.  But then, look at the list of side effects of any medicine.  Even ibuprofen or cough medicine all available without prescriptions have lists of potential side effects.  And certain drugs may cause hallucinations, like the ADD medicine my daughter was prescribed until she saw things she hasn’t even told me about.  We immediately took her of THAT shit, you may be sure, and never went back.  But I digress.  One wonders if my friend is right.  What if the cure for depression is just things that make you happy?  Relaxation instead of obsessing about weight and bmi and image and shit.  Food you like.  Being able to afford THINGS you like, or things you need.  Alas, these things are either “bad” for us, or they’re illegal, or they’re unaffordable.  I mean, maybe not the stupid gold-in-or-on-your-food trend that jacks ordinary coffee up to $25 a crack and ordinary ice cream to $2500.  But no, the simpler pleasures- butter for your toast.  Toast.  Coffee.  Cream.  Bacon.  Seems my dream breakfast is going to kill me.  But I’d probably die happier if I could eat it on days when I want to.  At 9AM or later.  I quit eating breakfast on weekdays except for maybe a breakfast bar or some buttered toast (fuck you, Doctor MakesMeDepressed!) with my coffee, and I quit putting cream and sugar in my coffee years ago and never looked back.  I’m too stressed from listening to Mrs M bitch about how she couldn’t sleep because she’s worried our finances and our kids and our marriage and our parents’ mortal existences are descending to hell in a handbasket on a greased slide.  Dad’s a diabetic, and he wants a fucking Pepsi all the time.  I may inherit some things from him, but I don’t want that.  Add stress because my dear daughter is driving and bitches because she expects the world to fall at her feet and worship her, not that she shouldn’t WANT that but that she shouldn’t EXPECT it, especially from Mr and Mrs Mumple.  Add more because I want the world to fall at MY fucking feet in worship and bring me tribute, but especially, reasonable compensation for worthwhile work and loyalty, and reciprocal treatment in my invested relationships, especially with and from Mrs. M.  She’s too tired and doesn’t like what I want.  Well, would you look at that!?  Turns out we’re incompatible after all (fuck you, marriage counselor bitch!), but I’m staying because I made my bed and there are times when I like it, and when I feel like it, I’ll lie in it and see, like some insane scientist, if the results of my experimental manic cleaning, care-tending, cooking, and foot washing, among other things, nets a different response.   Add more because everyone in my life wants me involved in theirs, in some fucking service capacity, for which I am either not paid or poorly paid, which brings me to…

2) Being paid shit in 2016, literally my wage is entry level after 10 years of work.  And the only reason I found out is that they tried to get us to get our soon-to-be-ex- friends and family to work for them, and sold it by telling us they were paying new people what they pay me now.  Yeah, I’m going to get everyone to be miserable, but at least they won’t have to work 10 years for shit raises! Instead, they’ll start where I am, so everyone is equally underpaid, including and especially the people they’ll expect to train the new ones.  I DID train a new guy, and I was happy he quit because I knew how that was going to turn out.  When I found out about the entry level wages I asked respectfully, and was told they thought my compensation was adequate.  See #1

1) Schedule shifting to shit in late 2016.  After 10 years of work, and after a sea of lies about how it wouldn’t be a drastic change, it was based on seniority and time zones and skill sets and a few other things, and then after they tried to sell it by saying they needed help because other people sucked in that time zone and didn’t know how to do the shit they trained us ALL to do, and then after they shoved it up my ass, more lies about how it was my fucking fault I got the shit shift because of my performance.  (Fuck you, bossy McBitch, and fuck your whiny little prick of a boss too.  You know the guy:  the little shit who came to your rescue and kept shoveling excuses and lies when I gave logical, realistic resistance based on your original sales-pitch, until I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere, and shut up in hopelessness.  Bossy McBitch is the 10th replacement boss I’ve worked for, because senior management doesn’t see any value or potential in paying or promoting people who know what the fuck they’re doing.  They hire NEW people who don’t know shit about what the company is built on, or what their team is supposed to do, train them to get trained by someone under them, and then make them micromanage and nitpick and shovel the company’s bullshit, lies, and excuses, down their underlings’ throats until a) they burn out and fade away, b) their underlings quit, they were paying them too much anyway, c) they do obscene things behind closed doors to get promoted out of the bullshit, or d) they find someplace better to work.

Oh but wait, taxes.  They got addressed this morning and sent out today, and here’s another reason I love Mrs. M despite her shortcomings.  Based on my original calculations, which I did despite my resistance to the very concept, I thought we were going to be paying, literally a few THOUSAND dollars in taxes this year, nothing we could possibly afford to pay, because she hardly had anything taken out of her checks preemptively, and she has it down to a few HUNDRED with legitimate tax laws.  I LOVE YOU MRS. M.!  I just wish you loved me in all the OTHER ways I really WANT to be loved.

If change is “bad,” it’s because it’s not the change I want.  The weekend was spent enduring death and taxes.  I attended a memoriam for two people who died last year, a lovely time was had by all, celebrating how much we loved them and love their memories.  I got home just in time to work on taxes, and then, because Mrs M prodded, I went to church on Easter Sunday.  The message was fine I guess.  I decided to do more writing.  (Sorry, readers!)  And another book idea popped in my head, so we’ll see where THAT one goes.

And sometimes, change is bad even when it IS what I want.  Bossbitch changed my schedule back to days just when I was settling in, and it’s what I wanted, but instead of leaving me alone to work from home and be productive during that HOUR of lunch they make me take, when I’m just as happy with leaving a half hour earlier after a half hour lunch, now she insists I go to the office and waste the hour.  The computer is the same.  The data is the same.  The work is the same.  So it’s just another power play of her asserting that yes, she is able to step on me, yank my chains, and make me dance(, monkey, dance!) to HER choice of tune.  Bitch.  If I was a manager, they’d fire me because I don’t WANT to micromanage people and fuck with their lives.  I just want them to work hard and earn a decent living and be happy and balanced.  Which, just from expecting they’d earn a “decent” living, is grounds for me to be dismissed if I was a manager.

But not only do I have to waste that hour instead of washing dishes or vacuuming or walking the dog or something, I get to waste another hour and a half because that’s when I can get my ride in to, and home from work, since dear daughter got a job after school and needs my car.  Hooray.

Why don’t I have any time or balance in my life, again?  I can’t blame EVERYTHING on death and taxes.  I’m not really afraid of either of those.  Mrs M is taking care of the latter, and I could give less than half a fuck about the former.  “’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

Good luck with your taxes. If you haven’t already done them, you have a few hours left to file for an extension.

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