On a recent radio show I heard a woman who had been institutionalised in an asylum for much of her life say we should learn to celebrate people with mental illness and applaud them for the struggles they face as opposed to degrading them to the lowest of the low. I happen to agree. They are discredited, disenfranchised and branded, but human just like I’m supposed to be. We fear becoming them and so we push people with serious mental illness into the furthest recesses of our minds. Just thought I’d mention that before I became all-flippant about things.
Why so flippant? Well it’s in keeping with my generational ability to deflect when things get awkward, awkward, and awkward. (We also love a good cop out (this is), storm out and coming out).
I have decided instead to subject you to a moment of my own lucid rantings and attempt to join the ranks of the great minds who wrote under the influence of hallucinogens, opiates and sedatives (most writers). My drug of choice: coffee. Two strong- weak- soy lattes have given me the jitters. Whoop. My brain is a mishmash of wah wah today… not dissimilar to the two infamous cat ladies from the documentary film “grey gardens”. In my mind I’m sitting around drinking flagons of tequila while belting out show tunes with runny mascara and my dress tucked into my knickers while seven cats pee on my foot, in a decrepit mansion in upstate New York. Why so skittish when I'm normally so wise and together? It’s tax time.
The greatest of all opportunities to procrastinate, agitate, ..debate, walk out the gate, go on a date, buy a crate… sorry, I was even procrastinating on getting to a point.
The tax time conversation with myself always goes a little bit like this….
Lacksadaisy do your tax… I wonder…is ‘confidence’, or is ‘precociousness’ the opposite of awkward? Do your tax. And why are so many of our allies drunkard Neanderthals. Do your tax. Do you think anyone has put nail polish on their nipples? Do your tax. Why are there so few winter woolly thongs? Do your tax. How many grannies can stare at me with wonderment as I belly dance around the dog pooh in their garden? Do your tax. I have never met a canary and I doubt their existence. You should be doing your tax. We are all the centre of the universe since everything is expanding away from everything. Tiles are shiny AND matt. Why are you not doing your tax you lazy thing? I like dogs, but only friendly ones. Do you tax. People are funny. Funny weird and funny ha ha. Whaaaaaaaaa!!! Pfft. Graggle graggle. Tax. Graggle. Tax. Waggle woo poo doo. Doodlie doo. Taaaaaax. And then my brain hits a wall. Everything grinds to a halt and I have a moment of clarity. I. Must. Do. My. Tax.
Shaking I get out my purple tax folder. I use the term folder loosely. It’s more of a big envelope where I have put all of my useless receipts after having thrown out the useful ones. I curse myself for not being one of those organised people that staples things and owns highlighters. I get angry with myself. I may cry and say I’m splitting up with myself and that I’ve gone to find someone a little more together and with it and who has their life sorted. I say to myself: you’re a lot of fun. We’ve had some good times, I really like you, but I need more from a self. I need someone who's good with numbers, who can do tax.
Then I leave myself. I go get another coffee and realise... I only have myself. A may try and deny it, but I’m all I’ve got and we need to get on and do our/my tax. It’s a weird moment of clarity. Then I do my friggen tax.
No comments:
Post a Comment