"H&R Glock"

Today, I did my taxes at a large tax service chain that rhymes with H&R Glock. "Steve" (his actual name) and I ripped through the tax code, working like hungry, cunning dogs ("Steve" did everything) until my taxes were complete. I think I kind of came out even, although the fact I don't really know basic math anymore prohibits me from knowing anything. And was I just another number to "Steve"? Did the guy ever give a shit about me in the first place? I've always wanted an amazing relationship with my accountant -- the kind of accountant who would cheat me some because he was in deep with some bookie, but take a bullet for me. The kind of accountant who would end up getting shot in the back and killed by a mugger just for his wedding ring, watch, and the few dollars in his wallet. 

That's how I'd end up at H&R Glock.   

"Helping A Friend"

A friend on Facebook posted about how they've been feeling ugly, so I responded about how I feel ugly all the time because I am ugly. I think it helped their self-esteem a lot.  

"Letters from the Janitor's Closet"

When I first got to college, I wrote the following two letters on napkins and mailed them to my Mom. I thought they were pretty funny. I intended to somehow keep them going and turn the whole thing into a long, epic tale, but I only managed two. Here they are:

Dear Mom,

    School is, well, going, I guess. Due to pre-existing water damage (you think they would of told me), my dorm room was condemned and so I've been reassigned to the janitor's closet. He's a nice guy and sympathizes with my predicament -- he even let me borrow some of his stationary for this letter. Anyway, I wish I could say my fellow students are as kind: It's not easy being the kid who lives in the janitor's closet. I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned in that, but I've learned it all the same. 

    Well, I'll keep you posted as things progress -- In fact, I've been thinking about turning this whole experience into a positive -- a book called Letters from the Janitor's Closet." Maybe this will be my first letter.  

Keep you posted,

Your son, Marc

Dear Mom,

    I think this is the low point. No one likes me -- and they're quite vocal about it! The ugly janitor closet boy, they call me. However accurate their ridicule is (sometimes they add in "that smells like cleaning supplies") it doesn't mean it stings any less. What do I do? Counteract with violence? Yes, I know that would be your move. Good old violent Mom! Oh, man! The next kid that steps to me is gettin' beaten ta death with a broom.

Your son,

Marc