Why am I such an idiot? Why must I get everything wrong? Why am I still lost in the weeds filling out these forms for “work release” when my wife usually handles it? She’s a girlboss, and for as long as we’ve been together, she’s taken care of all the paperwork. I never asked for her to do it, I just never volunteered, and after the fifth abrupt visit from the IRS, she locked me in a broom closet for three days and filed four years of back taxes high on crickets and crank. I’m glad she doesn’t use methamphetamine anymore—I’d be too tempted. Monica has never had an addictive personality; she can take or leave drugs as she pleases, a quality I’m most envious of. Just the other day I walked in on her trying to tie one of her wings off so he could shoot up some heroin. I was speechless, totally aghast, but she looked at me like a bug and said, deadpan, “I have a headache. Help me get normal.”
She’s not one to crave a fix, but maybe it’s just the constant switching of habits and obsessions that make it easier to believe she’s not an addict. She’s never attended an NA meeting (like me, even though I was forced, I did enjoy it—excellent place to score. Good coffee, too) but she’s also never overdosed or let drugs get in the way of daily routine and responsibilities. I’m so proud of my wife and I love her so much. Can your wife casually shoot up heroin and be up in time for the farmer’s market? Didn’t think so. Oh honey, your jealousy is showing—try to hide it, it’s a bad look. Kissy face.
Anyway, now she’s disappeared—again—and I’m left to handle all this tax bullshit. I don’t know what to do or what to write, and all of this fine print and these big numbers… they scare me. I get so excited and nervous I start pecking and chewing away at the forms, necessitating a second copy delivered, a tactic I use to buy time but one I find mortifying. It’s not that my wife takes care of our paperwork; it’s just that I don’t know how to do any of it, and I should at my age. What is a 7-9? Can anyone tell me that? Maybe I never learned how to read and none of my books have been picked up because they’re unintelligible garble and Bennington and Monica have been playing a cruel prank on me this whole time.
See? Now I’m paranoid. I wish I could tie one off, but no—not today, Satan. I will not give in. I think I need to hire an accountant, though. And of course I’d keep it in the animal kingdom. Aren’t turtles supposed to be good with money? I’ve only met a couple and they were mean to me, so I’m a bit recalcitrant, but whatever, I don’t want to get sent to Guantanamo Bay again. One time a turtle bit me and I had him assassinated. Over the line? No—we had him for dinner that night, and not a single piece of the animal’s anatomy was wasted. That’s called humane consumption, so take note humans. Also if anyone has any “golden brown,” feel free to DM me on Twitter or come to my barn at 45 Babb—oh hi Monica… no I’m just writing… writing… no it’s for… It’s FICTION! STOP PECKING ME.
—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits