I have to remember to write about my Ottawa experiences from 1993-1999. For those years my luck was pure shit, but they ended up being good stories that I like to tell evey so often.
I'll try to get started on this as soon as possible. 0 scrawls at the end of this hallThe look: The feel: The taste: ________________________ Tuesday, Feb. 25, 2003 - 11:03 a.m. Tax Time The controller just gave me my T4 slips, and you know what THAT means (if you're Canadian). It's tax time. And if you're JonasParker then tax time=you gotta pay. Every year since I graduated university I gotta pay. Every fucking time. Hundreds of dollars. Why can't they take off the right amount of money throughout the year instead of sticking me with a bill every time? This year, I will not freak out. I will calmly negotiate with the bailiff before smothering him with chloroform, disposing of him in my neighbour's chipper and fleeing to the West Indies. Or Brockville. I hate taxes so much. Did I already mention that I get fucked every year? 0 scrawls at the end of this hallThe look: The feel: The taste: ________________________ |
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