I'm The Tax Man, Yeahhh.
Done!
Taxes are done. Of course, I waited till the last minute, because:
a. The forms weren't in English
b. The explanatory notes provided with the forms weren't in English either (actually, there is an English version, in .pdf format, available through the Income Tax Department's web site, which, you guessed right, is not in English)
c. The English version (which my kind, tax-conversant friend, Maylee downloaded and emailed to me) managed to be equally unintelligible.
Of course, I'm failing to mention the most compelling of reasons:
d. The adrenaline rush of "Four minutes to deadline!" panic that only serial procrastinators truly understand and appreciate.
I'd probably never have gotten them done but for my friend Maylee, who possesses a preternatural understanding of tax-related jargon. On Friday, one frantic phone call to Maylee and three cups of coffee later, the forms were completed and dispatched. I made all my New (Fiscal) Year resolutions that night: Will keep all receipts. Will file all papers. Will find job in country which (a) does not require income tax to be filed or (b) has forms in simple English and no death penalty for filling them wrong.
The best thing about the tax deadline is that you're rewarded with a day off: May Day! (Which is also the name of the coolest of movie-villainesses-who-undergo-a-moral-transformation-but-die-in-a-fiery- explosion-at-the-end-of-the-film of them all. Note to self: must watch--and blog a witty, insightful analysis of--some 007.)
Plan for tomorrow: Clean up room. Look for jobs at publications not called The Daily Beard. Purge ears of months of colleagues' daily gosh-awful blaring musical offerings (which seem to rotate between 80's power ballads and local language versions of 80's power ballads), with a healthy dose of silence. Fix lunch, make sure it involves plenty of carbs. Watch the next Spiderman. Follow that up with dinner out: Indian, or perhaps dim-sum. Bake a loaf of bread.
The thought of it all is good enough that one can almost, almost ignore the Karma Chameleon on repeat-play emanating from the tinny built-in speakers of the neighbouring computer at decibel levels that seem to be intended for broadcast to Fuji. Boy George and everyone on the payroll of the Beard singing along with him may be intent on scratching out my eardrums with a collective vocal fork, but in a few hours I will be free of it all. Free! Take that and smoke it, you heathens.
Taxes are done. Of course, I waited till the last minute, because:
a. The forms weren't in English
b. The explanatory notes provided with the forms weren't in English either (actually, there is an English version, in .pdf format, available through the Income Tax Department's web site, which, you guessed right, is not in English)
c. The English version (which my kind, tax-conversant friend, Maylee downloaded and emailed to me) managed to be equally unintelligible.
Of course, I'm failing to mention the most compelling of reasons:
d. The adrenaline rush of "Four minutes to deadline!" panic that only serial procrastinators truly understand and appreciate.
I'd probably never have gotten them done but for my friend Maylee, who possesses a preternatural understanding of tax-related jargon. On Friday, one frantic phone call to Maylee and three cups of coffee later, the forms were completed and dispatched. I made all my New (Fiscal) Year resolutions that night: Will keep all receipts. Will file all papers. Will find job in country which (a) does not require income tax to be filed or (b) has forms in simple English and no death penalty for filling them wrong.
The best thing about the tax deadline is that you're rewarded with a day off: May Day! (Which is also the name of the coolest of movie-villainesses-who-undergo-a-moral-transformation-but-die-in-a-fiery- explosion-at-the-end-of-the-film of them all. Note to self: must watch--and blog a witty, insightful analysis of--some 007.)
Plan for tomorrow: Clean up room. Look for jobs at publications not called The Daily Beard. Purge ears of months of colleagues' daily gosh-awful blaring musical offerings (which seem to rotate between 80's power ballads and local language versions of 80's power ballads), with a healthy dose of silence. Fix lunch, make sure it involves plenty of carbs. Watch the next Spiderman. Follow that up with dinner out: Indian, or perhaps dim-sum. Bake a loaf of bread.
The thought of it all is good enough that one can almost, almost ignore the Karma Chameleon on repeat-play emanating from the tinny built-in speakers of the neighbouring computer at decibel levels that seem to be intended for broadcast to Fuji. Boy George and everyone on the payroll of the Beard singing along with him may be intent on scratching out my eardrums with a collective vocal fork, but in a few hours I will be free of it all. Free! Take that and smoke it, you heathens.
