Like any dutiful citizen, I remain an active participant in my local, statewide and national governments by holding firm, immovable opinions on absolutely everything, even those things about which I know nothing. You can ask me about any of my beliefs. What, for instance, do I think about health care? I’m all for it. Infrastructure? Sounds legit. Military? There definitely is one! Try to argue with me on any of these things and you’ll get nowhere. These are my beliefs! I formed them on a whim one day and I will stand by them until it stops being convenient for me to do so!
Today, I want to talk about something that’s pretty big in the media these days: taxes. I’m not trying to be controversial, but what even are taxes? Where is a tax? Could you pick something up with your hands, put it in a box, point to it and say: “There, in that box. That is a tax I have acquired for you.” I sure hope so, because I’m not great at grasping the intangible and I love getting presents.
For most of my life, my personal definition of taxes has been, “a thing adults grumble about.” The word has long held a place on my list of signal words. Whenever I hear my parents using any of these words, I know to tune out of the conversation immediately, as there is no chance that what follows will interest me. Other words on the list include “mortgage,” “sugar free” and “the neighbors want you to stop teasing their son for being shorter than you. He is 11, it is not even impressive for you to be taller.”
Recently, I had to take taxes off the list of things that mean nothing to me. I am 22-years-old. It is time for me to know how to do a tax. In the past, my taxes have been one of the many things my mom has taken care of for me. So today I walked into the house and declared: “Mother, it’s time. I’m going to do my own taxes.”
“Oh thank God!” she said, beaming. “Does this mean you’re also going to start scheduling your own haircuts?” I spent the next seven hours laughing at that ridiculous suggestion. My mom is the funniest person I know. Once I caught my breath, I grabbed the tax forms and ran out as I shouted: “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best! By the way, I need you to set up a haircut for me soon because my bangs have grown down to my nose and I cannot see anything. See you at Christmas maybe!” and then I ran into the door because I was not kidding about my bangs.
I sat down to take a swing at things. This is what I learned about taxes: taxes involve many pieces of paper and many rules. You will need to know some basic information such as your social security number. For the sake of example, I think mine is like 2309857213982783 or whatever. I know that’s too many digits to be correct, but if you get rid of some of the numbers and then add some different ones, you may eventually come up with my social security number. I wrote this explanation on the form and moved onto the next step.
At this point I was stumped so I turned to the world wide web. I googled “how do I do my taxes” and was horrified to find that not even wikiHow could give me a straight answer. If wikiHow doesn’t have instructions for something, that usually means it is not possible to do. I crumpled up my tax forms and shoved them in an envelope to mail to the IRS with a note that said, “You’ll get my taxes when Trump releases his!!!!”
The next morning I got up and turned on the television to find Rachel Maddow declaring that she had President Donald Trump’s tax returns. This was a real bummer for me, as it poked some holes in the argument I had already mailed to the IRS. I shook my head knowingly. This was, of course, not the first time Rachel Maddow had put a damper on my plans. Classic Maddow.
In any case, I suspected I might now find myself in trouble with the IRS. Granted, I’m no stranger to trouble with acronyms. I’ve been in some pretty hot water with the PTA, the FBI, AARP, the NBA and the YMCA but never the IRS. For a moment, I panicked, but soon I remembered the one thing I can always count on: wikiHow. Sure enough, I quickly found the “How to Fake Your Own Death” wikiHow page. It was the perfect way out. Before I flee, I just wanted to let all my friends and family know not to be sad. I am not dying for real, just pretend. That being said, you should all put full effort into the kind speeches you write for my funeral, as I will likely be watching from a vent somewhere. When the IRS calls, please let them know I have tragically passed, but also don’t forget to mention that if they are willing to be cool and let a few taxes slide, I am a very chill girl who would probably be amenable to rising again.
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