I Wish I Could Decipher Your Letter

I can't remember what I wanted to spew remorselessness about. Maybe that it just took me a good thirty minutes to remind myself how to log in? I was apparently feeling remorseless when I started the process.

OH WAIT I KNOW

TurboTax, you fucker. I hauled my ass all the way to this pretentiously decorated coffee shop full of fluffy coffee shop people, slogging through eight feet of melting snow and fording the resulting rivers of shit, clutching my kind of heavy computer for dear life lest I do the slipping-but-not-going-down ice dance and mistakenly fling it across the road, all for the opportunity sit at this table and drink an americano (because they "don't do drip coffee here") and have you tell me that you're "saving my data" for TWENTY MINUTES AT A TIME which I am beginning to believe is a lie. I just want my fucking taxes done, and as much as I deplore my dependency on you, I CANNOT DO IT ALONE. I'd take my goddamn business elsewhere but you are holding my 2006 information HOSTAGE so I can't.

You whore.

My god, I forgot how awesome this blog is.