The Return of the Tax

I got my tax return this morning, finally, and I'm having to stop typing this sentence every couple of words so that I can do an elaborate tap-dance of joy.

I've got big plans for this infusion of cash... a couple of trips (Chicago in April, Boston in May), pay some debt, buy myself a nice pair of solid gold pants, etc. But first, before I purchase anything, I'm going to withdraw it all from the bank, spread it out on the bed, and roll around in it like Demi and Woody in Indecent Proposal. Nobody appreciates windfalls such as this like people who are almost always one trip to the hospital or a case of identity theft away from complete and utter ruin.

Granted, my financial woes are entirely my fault. Wouldn't claim otherwise because, the evidence is brutally and overwhelmingly against me. I suck at money management in much the same way that Alaskan brown bears suck at not eating campers. And what's weird is that I'm not a materials-oriented guy; I don't buy expensive electronics or crap like that, I've never bought a car, I wear the clothes I own until they rot off my body, I not a "bling" type of person (except for the solid gold pants, but you've got to treat yourself sometimes)... I do buy books, and I do eat take-out too much but really, that's it. Oh yeah, and rent and bills and all that junk too, but that doesn't count because there's nothing I can do about those unless I want to live out in the woods in a shack and live off the fat of the land, and that's certainly not going to happen until the fat of the land starts to include cable and a beer on tap. And yet, the only way money could burn a hole in my pocket faster would be if it were actually on fire.

Need to fix that one of these days.

Anyway, all of this is another way of saying that I'm really fucking thrilled that some money's come my way. I believe Coolio said it best when he said, "Dolla dolla bill, yall." Dolla dolla bill yall, indeed, good sir.