Thursday, April 13, 2017

April 13, 2017

Dear Diary,

Couldn't sleep at all last night because of the terrible news I received yesterday afternoon.  I knew something was up when I saw Bill carrying out boxes of papers instead of shredding them as he usually does.  Turns out my woman's intuition was right and that we are in real tax trouble!  Bill finally broke the news to me after the man at H&R Block looked at our financial statement, laughed, wiped his eyes and said, "I hope you look good in stripes!"

I had no idea things were this bad.  I had to call Dr. Morell in the middle of the night because my blood pressure had shot through the roof, and even doubling both the Xanax and the Mirtazapine didn't seem to help.  I finally killed off some Early Times I had hidden in the bookshelf.  That worked.

I knew I should never have trusted Bill with our finances ever since he joked about having enough for "pussy and beer" when we were first married.  He never planned for our future.  And whenever I expressed any concern at all, Mister Happy Go Lucky would just laugh and say, "Honey, as long as there are arabs, we'll always be good!"

According to the man at H&R Block, just about everything Bill has been telling me has been completely wrong.  For example, Bill had been writing off "hookers and Early Times" as office expenses.  Who does that?  I can't believe he was so stupid.  Everyone knows that hookers are "consultants" and Early Times is "office supplies."  And if that wasn't enough, Bill didn't even get the hookers' social security numbers.  All we have are VISA statements, so even with the double miles, we can't even send them 1099s.

What an idiot.

Before the you-know-what, all of this stuff was handled by the Clinton Foundation and we could just throw money at had professionals who managed these kinds of problems.  Now Bill tells me that there is no Foundation and that aside from speaking fees, the only real money coming in is from some pizza franchise in Washington, D.C. but that we're in trouble there, too, because most of the employees are under the age of 16.

Honestly, dear diary, I never though I'd end up like this. Broke. Alone. Sleeping 14 hours a day until my hair grows back from this ridiculous new haircut.  Jesus, I must have been high when I let Katy Perry talk me into wearing bangs.  Dr, Morell made Bessie cover all the mirrors, but I caught a glimpse of my reflection on my iPad and I look like a fossilized cheerleader from 1956.

Well, what's done is done, I suppose.  Bill says I don't have to sign the return because as my spouse he has the right to have me declared incompetent.  He was joking.  I'm sure he was joking.

Maybe I need a lawyer.

I should call Webb Hubbell. He's a lawyer. Haven't heard from him since last Father's Day.

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