Okay, Fuck the Rainbows and Sunshine

Yeah, I tried to be positive. Well, screw that. This weekend served as a reminder that life enjoys throwing sucker punches that leave you crumbled on the ground wheezing for air.

We just found out that we owe Uncle Sam quite a bit of money. Our efforts to save for a Farewell for Independence Tour and a family will be wiped clean, and then some. And why? Because it seems we may have received some bad information from our accountant--otherwise known as The Banker's uncle. In an orgy of stupid, this Irish clan keeps it all in the family. And when the family royally fucks up, you have no recourse. No options. You bend over, empty your savings accounts, and smile at the next painful Christmas party the man throws.

I received the news on Friday night after one of the worst days of work ever (wherein my elderly mentor AGAIN shares with me that she's having diarrhea). I curled up in a ball and cried. We can't seem to catch a break. Our finances were well on their way to being healthy and out of nowhere we're taken out at the knees.

I could have made up the amount owed in several months’ worth of freelance if we were still in the big city. But we're not, and I lost all those lucrative freelance gigs because they were city- and state-based magazines. I can't even make a decent damn freelance career here. In fact, I can't even remember the last time I pieced together a worthy turn of phrase. All my hard work and schooling, but the odds are slim I'll have the opportunity to work for a decent magazine. In fact, I haven't touched words in two months' time at my day job, instead learning soul-crushing computer programs and completing clerical work.

I hate where we are right now. I hate that I no longer can boast with pride that I'd escaped my hometown. Hate that I need to accept that everything else is could-have-been's and never-will-be’s. Hate that we've been sucked dry by a mistake. Hate that there's no recourse. Hate that all the rainbows and sunshine don't mean shit.