Turning the corner

So apparently, the IRS gets all uppity when you don’t sign your tax return. Boo. Here’s the thing, a chimp on amphetamines has a more distinguished signature than your faithful friend Craig, and couldn’t they just maybe…SIGN IT FOR ME???? COME ON! Is this really worth sending the whole thing back to me with a strongly worded letter and an order to pay in more money? When my assistant got this letter, whoa, let me tell you, she did NOT want to give it to me (and for good reason) because she knew how I’d react, and I’ll tell you, I about shit a chicken! This was icing on the cake for me because I had a bit of a financial bender in Minneapolis when I went back for my buddy’s wedding, and when I checked my Bank of America online statement, I was at roughly $100. Boo.

Let me tell you, I was surprised. I mean I knew booze and strippers added up, but I thought there was a clause for bachelor parties or something (apparently Bank of America discontinued that program). How could I have spent this much money in like four days?? Well, It turned out I was wrong, it was a big misunderstanding and I had read the statement incorrectly. It turned out that there were still pending transactions and I actually had $60.

I decided not to worry and just watch it for the rest of the trip and I would deposit my paycheck when I got home and everything would be peaches, but on the way over to my girlfriend’s house, I apparently fit the typical criminal stereotype of a speeder and I was pulled over for going 42 in a posted 30. Boo. I mean fuck a duck, when you see a 25-year-old Caucasian male driving his grandparents’ mid-90’s Volvo wagon, do you see trouble? Never mind the 27 people getting murdered a block to our right, or the 12 hicks gang banging a border collie ten feet to our left, this cop decides to pull over the most broke guy he can find just for kicks. -$142. Thank you MinneCRAPolis!

Now, I would have been okay. I was going to sell a couple of kidneys (both mine), and with my waiting paycheck I could have made rent and paid the ticket while living off of ramen and rice. Would’ve been Zen-like, I figure. I was too proud to take food stamps or cash my alimony checks. I mean, I probably would have had anorexic 300 abs in no time (see previous post). I would have made it. But, like King Leonidis and his group of 300 brave souls, the forces of evil that were mounted against me were too strong, and they had yet another wave of sword-toting Persian to finally fall my brave $60. That sword-toting, bastardized, motherless (that was redundant, I think) whore that is the IRS came knocking at my door.

Now, this is where this post comes full circle. If you didn’t remember the first part about signing your tax return, here’s some advice for you: for God’s sake DO IT! For all I know, that was the only reason my return was checked carefully enough for those pigs to realize I owe about double the amount I actually paid. Boo.

This is where the mysterious title of this epic, life-changing post comes into play. You see, this is the most broke I’ve ever been in my entire life. And I mean MY ENTIRE LIFE! I wasn’t born this broke because I started out at zero and now I’m below that. I wasn’t this broke at age two because I had a piggy bank and I’ll be damned if I didn’t save like a mini Rockefeller at every birthday, Christmas, or lost tooth that came around. I wasn’t this broke when I got back from war because I was never in war. I wasn’t this broke when I was in high school because I worked every summer and had fuckall to spend my money on in little St. Croix Falls. You get the picture, I am a broke joke. Boo.

But oh how the tables can turn, and oh how a person can round a corner in their life only to find themselves going in the opposite freaking direction! Currently, I am heading toward Tijuana and I soon I will be heading for that town in Arkansas (or wherever) that Wal-Mart was started. Yeah, highest per capita income in the world, you bet your ass buddy!

This isn’t to say there isn’t something romantic about the way a Tijuana street gets caught in the pale moonlight. But here’s the thing, Tijuana’s magic is a luster that can be rubbed away like a gold-plated grill, it’s a place to visit occasionally, but God forbid you live there. It’s just not done. Even the strippers commute in. So it is that I shall make the fateful trip to said border town occasionally in my life (there’s no denying that, I'm going to have hard times), but it shall never be with an air of permanence, for I’ll be turning the corner and heading back up north to terrorize the Waltons.