Receipts

I wish not to dread any day that passes. Because each day, even the worst days, are gifts--even if it seems broken off of something and given just so, no gift wrap, no explanation.

But here we are, back here, again. Tax season. And its time to bite the bullet with my front teeth.

All year this shoebox has been staring me. It once carried winter boots. Now it contains every bank statement, credit card statement, bill, and receipt from 2009. The box has been waiting patiently for me to open its belly like a surgeon and sort through its guts, a highlighter my scalpel.

As a writer, performer, aka independent contractor, everything is a tax write off. For the past few years, I have conditioned myself to expense everything. Every cup of tea I drink outside. Every film or play. Every book I buy or outfit I snatch off a store hanger.

It is time to go in there and make sense of it all. To reminisce on every dollar I spent last year, and see how that matches up to every dollar I earned. I hope it all works out in my favor. I am crossing my fingers and toes. Please tax gods. Please don't make me pay.