Here’s a bit of irony:

When I’m really procrastinating about writing, I might even decide it’s time to clean up my desk. Which is no small matter, let me tell you. My desk is a giant magnet that draws everything to it. That sock you’re missing? Probably on my desk somewhere.

But now taxes loom before me. This means I have to open Excel (gasp), sort through all the accounts, and figure out where I spent Saralaugh’s money this year. Because my accountant is waiting for all this stuff. Because the IRS wants to know, in detail, what money came in and what money went out and where and why and how. You’re thinking I should have been keeping track throughout the year, and yes, that would have been a good idea. Every year at this time I think just that, but then I don’t.

So here’s the odd thing. I’m procrastinating about writing, but what’s sitting front and center on my desk? Tax stuff. Now, I want to make clear my personal stance on taxes: I want to pay them. I want to pay what I owe, no shenanigans. I’m not nuts about the hunk of that money that goes into Bush’s war, but I close my eyes and imagine all my tax dollars are going into social services and infrastructure.

But first I have to sort through tons and tons of receipts and notations and bank statements… or I could go write another few pages.

There’s no place to hide, I tell you. No place at all.