Take that, all you "oh the poor don't pay taxes" assholes. Yes, they do. I do.
Anyway, I haven't saved anything for tax day. Luckily, there's been plenty of work available at my job, and when I absolutely must, I can take advantage of that. They pay me by line rate at my job--it's something like eight cents per 65-character line, including spaces. This last week I've kept my nose to the grindstone and have been averaging around 240 lines an hour. You work out what that is in dollars and cents; I'm too tired, and my wrists hurt from all this typing.
Other things requiring me to focus more on work-for-pay than work-for-free:
* My food processor broke in December. It's a funny thing about that: I know I sound like a spoiled brat for saying I have a hard time making do without a food processor. But guess what? I'm a spoiled brat, and I have a hard time making do without a food processor. Without a food processor, there's no buy-the-cheese-in-bulk and grate-it-your-damn-self savings (I am not this patient--although, doesn't that look pretty? Besides, I haven't got a microplane zester, which is a whole other tragedy). Without a food processor, there is no homemade hummus.
Most importantly, however: Without a food processor, I . . . okay, look: You know how you'll see some guy barreling down the road in the biggest, ugliest Hummer money can buy? And you know how you'll be all like, "Ha, ha, that guy must have the smallest penis in the world?" Well, without a food processor, I feel like that guy, only, five minutes after you repossessed his Hummer. That food processor, in addition to being a fantastically handy appliance, was a SYMBOL. It was a proud, defiant symbol of the fact that I cook--despite never really having been taught to, despite living in a country where the temptation not to cook never really lets up. I would have to go into a whole bunch of boring stuff here about my stupid issues with my mother to explain this properly. I'm not going to do that, so please accept the short version: That food processor was part of my identity, and I miss it. I am currently saving up for this one.
* Remember the day I got that call from my boyfriend's parents and they said they were going to land on my doorstep in about 4 hours? Remember how I did all this cleaning to get ready for their arrival? What I didn't tell you was that in the course of all that cleaning, I removed the glass top insert to my dining room table and then, what with one thing and another, but mostly thanks to my own clumsy ass, IT BROKE. I mean shattered, all over the entryway. So now I have no table. I need a dining room table. Right now the boyfriend eats at the desk and I eat over the kitchen counters, or vice versa, and it sucks. What with the missing table and the missing food processor, why cook at all? Hey, did you know Jack in the Box serves breakfast all day? Somehow it doesn't feel so wrong to eat bachelor-fashion if I'm just wolfing down some crappy breakfast sandwich anyhow.
* I hate, hate, hate my duvet cover, and I know where I can get an 800-thread-count one that will fit better than the one I have for SIXTY DOLLARS, ONLY, but when I am tempted I remember that (1) we can't go on eating Jack in the Box forever and (2) it's about time to retire the goose down comforter for the summer anyway.
So I need money, and rather than beg you for it, I'd just as soon work.
Some spring break I am having! Well, it beats being dead.