When you hear the f-bomb…

…you know we’re deep into tax season around here.  I thought since I’ve been so quiet I’d give you all an update on the hell that is my life this time of year – though my long-time readers already know that I’m usually pretty scarce between February and April (and know why).  ;o)

So…yeah.  I’ve had a helluva week.  I’m mostly done with my biggest nightmare (yes, you Scout but it’s not your fault, it’s Paypal!  Bastahds!  You I love, them I hate.  Much.) and have my second biggest nightmare yet to tackle – since I haven’t received his expense reports yet.  Not a one, not even a lonely gas receipt.  Seriously, I don’t think the guy has a clue that his time is running out.

…which reminds me, I have an extension to file.  For a different client.  Crap.  *scribbles on to-do list*

As for the f-bomb, our friend Dave gave  me his W2’s a couple of weeks ago and decided to stop by the other day to…get this…sign his ‘paper thing’ (yes, that is what he said and I sweartogsd he does it on purpose).  I looked him straight in the eye (not easy since he’s 6’4″ in socks) and said, “F*ck you, Dave.  Get. Out.”  He laughed all the way to the car.

The jackass.  He’s lucky he could still walk.  ;op

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