I just mailed off my taxes. I stood in line at the post office behind a women who makes her living selling crap on eBay, listening to the two women behind me talk incessantly about a new improv comedy show that sounds absolutely nauseating and paid the extra money to have a return receipt since I don't trust the U.S. Postal Service as far as I can throw them.
I secretly hoped that my California state taxes would get lost since, no matter how many times I went over the forms and added up my deductions, I owe money to the state of California. They charged me income tax on every penny I made even though more than half of it was earned outside of the state. I'm getting the tiniest of tiny refunds from the Federal Government, but anything is better than having to write out a check.
And so I dropped the weighty envelopes off, tipped my sunglasses back down over my eyes, and brushed my hands off decidedly as I walked up to my little rental car and found a man in black printing out a parking ticket on his little machine as he read off the license plate number. Not only do I owe money to the state of California for working outside of the state last year, but now I owe the city of Coral Gables $18 for spending 2 and 1/2 minutes longer in the post office than my meter allowed.
I had the urge to throw a tantrum right there. I wanted to throw down my purse, rip the ticket out of the little beady-eyed man's hands and rip it up, toss it in his face, kick the tire of my sad little Kia, but I refrained. I maintainted my dignity and only huffed and puffed once I'd driven off.
Oh, the humanity.
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