Suck It, IRS

Dear IRS,

I have afforded you the courtesy of a “dear” in this letter, as I did not in my previous letter. You may (or may not) wonder why you have found me in such a pleasant disposition. I will tell you.

Today, for the first time in almost ten years, I owe you no money.

(Pardon me while I complete a little victory dance. No, I’m not having a seizure, I just grew up Baptist, so I don’t have the rhythm most normal people have. But yes, that was most certainly a completely vulgar hand gesture I was making in your general direction.)

I realize that there will always be poor unfortunate souls that your corporation will always prey on mercilessly, but no more shall I call my bank to find that you have withdrawn my last twenty-one dollars and thirty-seven cents without my permission. I will no longer need to write on my bill calendar your most deplorable automatic withdrawal payment that has been plagueing me like a virus for the last four years. With my now liberated monthly $100, I intend to purchase a ridiculous number of shoes, and books that will be added to my already multitudinous collection.

It has been brought to my attention that you do not care in the least about my opinion, oh wretched IRS, but that will not stop me on the 16th of every month from interrupting whatever it is I’m doing at the time to howl to the heavens most barbarically “SUCK IT, IRS!” while simultaneously re-creating the move made most famous by the wrestling tag team DX of Triple HHH and Shawn Michaels viscously several times in an unladylike manner.

Have a nice day,

Sparklebumps

The Things We Must Do

Surely I am not an advocate for doing things you don’t want to do. I believe if you go through life doing things that are not necessarily of your own volition- if they are things other people want you to do, or things you feel obligated to do, you will just end up angry and frustrated and ready to shoot everyone in your path with an AK-47 or a flamethrower- kinda like Michael Douglas in the movie Falling Down.

Anyhoo, I was thinking of things of this nature this morning when I woke up, and I got to realizing that there are really quite a few things that we really MUST do in order to function acceptably in the world and not be thrown in with the crazies.

1. Wearing pants. Or really, any type of clothing that covered your gender parts.

As much as I adore walking through,  and sitting in, my apartment sans clothing, there are times when one simply must don vestments in order to keep from being arrested. Walking out to the mailbox, weddings, work- really, any time there are other humans about. It’s really toilsome to have to ensure clean and fashionable attire, especially when you just want to waltz around in your birthday suit.

2. Refraining from screaming out “I really fucking HATE this job!” while you’re at work.

Especially when you really fucking hate the job.

3. Paying the IRS.

Believe me, I have, perhaps unintentionally, tried to get away with NOT doing this. Sadly, Big Brother is a omniscient, and will TAKE your money out of your paycheck, or your bank account, or your property, if you try to screw him over. Dammit.

4. Compromising.

Let me be clear- one must solely compromise in order to keep friends and/ or relationships alive. If you are quite content growing into an old cat lady or lonely old man, feel free to refuse to compromise on where you should go out to eat, or where the TV is placed, or whether three times a week is enough for sex or not. I’m sure you’ll be happy being an old man who never goes to Olive Garden, sitting at home in front of the TV with a glare from the window jAcKiNG OFFWITHYOURHANDONCEAWEEK!!!!

5. Refraining from flicking people in the forehead when they’re annoying you.

As satisfactory as it sounds to do so, at some point, this may be considered harassment of some kind. I am still appalled to find that annoying people are not considered some kind of harassment yet.

6. Eat with your mouth closed.

Because even if I am not within earshot of you, I GUARANTEE there is someone sitting close by listening to you smack your lips in an ungentlemanly fashion who is inwardly cringing while secretly plotting how best to dispose of your newly-butchered body.

Well, I think I’ve gotten a pretty good start on educating you all on things you must do in order to be a little bit acceptable, however, if you promise to chew with your mouth closed, you can hang out with me sans pants anytime.

 

 

Fair Credit Reporting My Ass

So my Rockstar and I met with a mortgage lady last week.

Since.. well, pretty much forever, this has been a painful and heartbreaking act for me. In the beginning, it was because I had no credit, because I was young, and unfruitful (in the money area). Later on, it was because I had too much credit (damn, you, Victoria’s Secret and your $2800 credit limits!) and just as unfruitful. In the past year, though, despite my lack of love for my job, I have made many dollars, a few of which I put to good use and paid off the four credit cards that were so shamefully taken away from me by their parent companies. Too, I paid off the $79 I owed to my once- amazing book club from about 6 years ago. Altogether, in the last 12 months, I’ve paid off over $5000 of my debt. So when my Rockstar FINALLY agreed to go to a mortgage lender, I was not in the least embarrassed by my low credit score, because compared to how low it was a year ago, or three years ago, it was phenomenal.

My Rockstar was dubious about his credit score as well, but for completely different reasons. It’s true he is immersed in debt, (thanks to his getting a loan for MY truck, and his over-used Guitar Center card) but his credit score is not in the least shameful. The problem there is his debt -to- income ratio, which would be acceptable were it not for me and my yellow truck.

Our mortgage lady was amazing- answering all our unasked questions, and not making me feel inferior in the least for my unworthy credit score. As she circled and marked the offending information on my credit report, I felt exactly as I did in 4th grade when I lied to my dad about knowing the 13 colonies and their capitals and I received my first and only F on a quiz. As she handed me my failing credit report with all the wrong answers marked, I shrugged and replied, “Well, I can only pay shit off as quickly as I make money.”

Mortgage lady agreed, and informed me that most of what she had marked were things that I’ve already paid off that just haven’t been removed from my report. She told me to give all those companies a call, and request of them that they remove the info from my credit report, since it was paid and it wasn’t doing them any good to keep reporting it anymore. I left feeling light-hearted, knowing without a doubt that the nice collection companies would do my bidding if only I asked.

It was not to be.

I just spent the last two hours calling those fuckers, and was  made to feel a  dumb bitch. Of the 5 places I called, only one- ONE!-  was courteous enough to (without a problem, mind you) assure me they’d remove their account from my credit report. The 4 others all argued with me, claiming that due to the fair credit reporting act, there was nothing they could do, and that their fucking stupid asses are going to be on my credit report for the next 3 to 5 years. When I told them that yes they COULD remove it (which is exactly what the mortgage lady told me to say), I was transferred, or hung up on, or told, “Im sorry ma’am, we just don’t do that.” When I asked WHY they just couldn’t do that, they replied with the unsatisfactory response, “We just don’t.”

What the fuck have I been throwing all my money at these fuckers if not to have them remove shit from my credit report?! I tell you, this does NOT re-inforce my will to further pay off any other bills that have accrued on my record. If I can pay over 60% of what I owe off, and still be denied house dollars, what’s the fucking point? I’ll live in a squalid dump for the rest of my life and buy infinite amounts of books before I hear one more condescending non-American voice tell me,

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we just can’t tell people you paid shit off a year ago. That just wouldn’t be fair.”

The Pianist = The Pauper

Let me tell you a little story about one of my used-to-be-heroes.

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Lorie Line who grew up in Reno. She had the unequaled talent of playing piano by ear, and dreamed of one day being a concert pianist. She also had a penchant for fashion. Anyhoo, she grew up, and went to college for music, where they told her she would never be good enough to play for the Reno City Orchestra. She was so distraught, she moved to Minnesota.

Lorie married a man and began a gig playing piano at her local Dayton’s store (which had now been sold to Macy’s). She spent her days serenading rich and snobby shoppers until one day, a customer asked her if she had a CD recorded that they may buy. And a famous person was born.

Since those days in the 80’s, Lorie Line has recorded over 30 albums, published numerous sheet music books, faithfully put on a steller annual Christmas concert tour, and built a mansion on Lake Minnetonka. I first became aware of her in the third year of my piano lesson taking, and, being a young and impressionable young girl, I was amazed at this woman who hadn’t enough “official” musical talent to make it as a musician, yet put on  more concerts than  Liberace and lived like a rockstar. I continuously bought her music books until I began to realize that, “Hey. I could arrange music like this myself, and NOT pay $35 per book.” I still admired her, though, because she has a talent that I do not- she can listen to a song once, and put it to music. Give me any Beethoven or Mozart sheet music, and I will be able to sight read it surprisingly well, but playing by ear is something I have never been able to do.

Lorie has been described as the female Liberace, and rightly so. The only difference between the two is that instead of buying Swarovski-encrusted pianos, Lorie buys Swarovski-encrusted stillettos. If you ask almost any person in  Minnesota, (or the surrounding states) they will describe her as an amazing pianist who puts on quite a show.

So imagine my surprise when a few weeks ago, my Auntie mentioned the fact that Lorie Line was selling her Meditteranean-inspired castle for only $4,000,000. I immediately went online to find it, because though I have seen several pictures in various home and garden magazines, I further wished to inspect Lorie’s homemaker style. Sadly, I was greatly disappointed.

Everything was beige and white. EVERYTHING. There was not one room that sported a fuschia dash of color or a royal purple stripe. Sure, there were fantastic wing-backed chairs- in white. No velvety green or Yamaha blue. As I paged through the online photos, I understood that Lorie was selling her house because it was depressingly boring.

A few days later, I talked to my Grammy, who told me Lorie’s house was, in fact, in foreclosure. I was unbelieving. How could a pianist who charges $35 per sheet music book, $16 per CD, and $65 per concert ticket be going into foreclosure?! I will tell you. Because she spent too much frickin’ money on beige, that’s how.

I am convinced that any person who goes through life beige and becomes complacent and accepting of that fact is destined to become a pauper. May this be a lesson to you all- you will always find success if you don a fuschia shirt.

I’m Still Here (Until I Go to S.D., At Least)

Hello, my Lovelys! It’s been an eternity since you’ve heard from me, I know. (Or at least it feels like it has been, doesn’t it?) It has been said, (at least by some) that I am a woman of power, yet even some things are not within my power to control. (Such as blogging daily as you all wish I would.) However, I know there are at least two of you out there who are truly devoted fans, and so I shall endeavor to make time to entertain you all with my sometimes above-average writings.

Once upon a time, last September, a girl known as Sparklebumps began an online diary of sorts. She entertained the online community daily with her accounts of everyday life in a used bookstore, until sadly one day, her online slander was discovered by her turd of a boss who felt it necessary to try and squash her happiness by firing Sparklebumps from her perfect job as a Book Pimp. Since then, she has slaved away in a less-than-joy-inducing profession, all the while longing of the day when she will once again be surrounded by the written word on a daily basis in some setting other than her over-filled-with-books apartment with her Rockstar.

While her love of books was the intended subject of her Lovely blog, her roller-coaster relationship with her ginger-haired Rockstar soon became a close second in the race for subject superiority. While at times, Sparklebumps’ stories of almost-marital sometimes-non-bliss have caused readers to hold their hands to their breasts in heart-wrenching pity, there is no longer need of such, for her Rockstar has once and for all proven his undying love for his eccentric and sparkly mate.

One day, last week, while Sparklebumps sat pining for the feel of her Rockstar’s junk inside her, she received a text from the grassy plains of South Dakota where he was hangin’ with his fam. The text was accompanied by a picture, that of a perfect somewhat-homely-yet-endearing bookstore that was for sale. It seemed as though her Rockstar missed her enough to be thinking about Sparklebumps and her imminent happiness, and so had (perhaps unintentionally) found a place for her dreams to come true.

The bookstore comes complete with three apartments above, sufficient for housing Sparklebumps and her Beloveds. There is room, too, for the Rockstar to have his very own musical recording studio, and to pursue his own dreams as a Rockstar to millions, and not only his girlfriend. Upon further cogitation, Sparklebumps realizes that South Dakota is perhaps not the ideal location for a lucrative book business, but has also realized that if purchased, will give her the ample time necessary to compose the many books that are written in her head that the world is waiting with baited breath for.

There is one small issue that arises. Businesses for sale cost dollars, and cannot be paid for with hugs and booby squishes. While Sparklebumps has no doubt of her business’s success, she also has no source of accruing $94,000 dollars with which to buy it. And so, she appeals to the online bloggery for ideas on how to achieve monetary success, and asks their opinions on her idea of placing a paypal donation button on her blog. If such a thing were to be done, be assured that all donations would be compensated with stories and writings of the donatee’s choosing subject matter. XOXO

P.S. Just sending a shout-out to any wealthy benefactors that may have been entertained by my slightly neurotic blog in days past.

A Perfect World: A Sparklebumps Daydream

I was thinking today about what the world would be like if it were exactly the way I think it should be. Of course, the normal ideas of no war, or hate, or prejudice came to mind, but as lovely as that sounds, those weren’t exactly new and original enough to get my heart pumping at an accelerated and excitable rate. I’m certain there will be a few raised eyebrows from some that read what I would constitute as Perfect World Ideas, but then- would it be a Sparklebumps post if there weren’t? 😉

1. People would express their…. physical emotions without the fear of jealousy, envy, and homicidal tendencies exuding from their significant others.

In translation, if a person met someone and the two felt a mutual physical attraction, they could feel free to act on that without their spousal/girlfriend/boyfriend companion yelling and shedding the Tears of One Scorned. I realize this could possibly be the most absurd idea you’ve ever heard, and would probably result in a world full of people fucking numerous and infinitismal amounts of people, but isn’t that happening anyway? You never know what could happen if you would have banged that hot chic that was making eyes at you at Walgreens while you were waiting to pay for your Colon Cleanse. Maybe you’d be living happily ever after with her and your harpy wife….

2. Instead of smiles and handshakes, people would greet others with hugs.

Just think, if you had to hug everyone you came into contact with, you’d make sure you were well-cleaned and smelling fresh always, wouldn’t you? In my opinion, this idea can only result in a world full of beautifully-scented individuals. It would perhaps also brighten many people’s days.

3. There would be a International World Unity Day.

Instead of having a Gay Pride Parade, or a Republican National Convention, every single person would set aside the ideas that make them different from each other, and remember that we are all human, (or mutant) and grab a beer, or a non-offensive carbonation-free beverage, and shoot the shit.

4. There would be no money.

Have you ever watched those zombie apocalypse movies or end of the world films and thought to yourself, “It’d be totally awesome just to be able to go borrow whatever you needed from the local grocery store.”? If we could just barter and borrow and share the things we had, wouldn’t things be alot easier? You know, like I could just go to the Ford Dealer and let the salesman know I’d bring that Boss Mustang back after a joy ride? Keep in mind, I haven’t thought about the economical fallbacks of this plan…

5. Everyone would be read to as a child.

It seems to be that those who have been read to as children grow up with a more developed vocabulary and a excelled wish for knowledge. It would be lovely if I never had to hear the words, “I seen that happen.” offend me from someone’s mouth ever again.

6. People would be truthful and direct with everyone. And they wouldn’t be offended.

If you didn’t like someone, you would tell that person, so they could do their best to stay away from you, instead of you pretending to be that person’s friend and then going to Joe Blow and backstabbing said disliked person.

Also, if your girlfriend asked you if she looks fat in this, you could say yes without fear of your balls being removed while you sleep.

7. Taylor Swift, Michael Bolton, Kristin Stewart, Stephanie Meyer, and other Ass Clowns of Questionable Talent would be rightfully quarantined to an island on the Moon.

 

The Benefits to Dating the Elderly

Tonight, my Rockstar celebrated his birthday. I have, on occassion, mentioned the near- generational gap that seperates us. While not quite old enough to be my father, the age difference would be the equivilant of his ten year old daughter dating someone of legal American drinking age . When put that way, the word “ewww” comes to mind.

It is true that certain downfalls accompany being in a relationship with a time-worn individual. Namely,the absurdly early bedtimes of 8:30 they have, and a somewhat less-than-satisfying sexdrive of only four times a week. However, I have devised a list of advantages that come from dating a geriatric:

1. They know what they want. My Rockstar knows he wants to retire.

I believe his exact words when asked who he admired were, “Anyone who doesn’t have to work for a living.” I must admit, he hasn’t exactly figured out how to achieve this dream yet.

2. They are generally monetarily settled.

I say generally, because this is not yet something that completely applies to my Rockstar; however, he IS very good about paying the cable and rent on time.

3.They know better than to argue with a woman.

Perhaps women are not always right, (HEEHEE! Just kidding!!!!!) but men of a certain age know better than to try and dispute what a woman says. (Or in my Rockstar’s case, receive a face-smashing once or twice to help them realize when they’ve come up with erronous ideas.)

4. They are better in bed.

Instead of enduring the thiry-second jack-rabbit drilling of the inexperienced, I get to enjoy the prolonged sensual humpings of a man who’s made love with someone other than his right hand and the Jergen’s bottle. Too, he is considerate enough to pull my head away before his man-juices shoot down my throat when I’m administering a blow job. Unfortunately, last night, he didn’t pull it quite far enough out of the way… Let me just point out- that shit stings when it hits you in the eye.

A Letter To The IRS

IRS,

If you have noticed, there is no warm and friendly words in my greeting to you. This is mainly due to the fact that you continuously insist on taking all of my hard-earned moneys. I realize that these are hard times fiscally, but given the fact that I have never made over $20,000 in any given year, is it really necessary for you deduct numerous dollars from my tiny paycheck every two weeks? I would understand if I were the only person in the country, but if you add up even $1 or $2 dollars from every person in America bi-weekly, that’s…. well, that’s alot of dough. I really don’t see why you should need more than that from little old Me.

Not only do you faithfully withdraw funds from my paycheck, but you always expect me to pay in every year when I fill out my taxes. Why am I penalized for not having a child, I ask? I hear of so many white and black trash people with multiple childrens who get to go blow $3 or $4 or $5 Thousand dollars every year because they have failed to be responsible and use protection and are clearly much too fertile. I believe that you should think about making a new policy rewarding peoples who DON’T take advantage of your niceties.

I would, however, like to thank you for allowing me to receive $62 on this years tax returns. I am immensely thrilled that I shall be able to buy a tank of gas, a coffee from Caribou, and a stick of gum. Thank you, IRS. Thank you from the bottom of my destitute heart.

I would like to bring to your attention the habit you have of sending unnecessary letters. It is quite obnoxious of you to repeatedly send me letters quoting  the dollar amount I owe you combined with your late fees. By the way, are those fees completely necessary? As if you haven’t raped my wallet enough, you also insist that I bend over to pick up loose change on the ground while you drill me in the ass mercilessly. All I have to say is- Shame on your greedy selves, IRS.

To sum it all up, I would like to point out that I firmly believe that because of your repulsive behaviors in this life, in your next life, you are sure to come back as the mashed pepperoni I stepped on last night that is now completely imbedded in the treads of my non-slip work shoes. So poo on you, you disgusting bastards.

No Regards,

Sparklebumps

“Real” Men- The Miniseries: Men and Money

It has come to my attention as of late that htere are many different perceptions as to what constitutes a “real” man.

When the term comes to mind, I immediately wonder, “Why is there so much pressure on the weaker sex? On certainly doesn’t hear the term “real woman” as frequently as “real man.” But then again, men need to be pressured once in awhile.

The purpose of my miniseries is to bring up the generic qualities associated with “Real Men” and either hurrah or poo-poo them.

Part One: “Real Men” pay for the date.

I am on the fence about this one. While I understand the concept, I, as a “Real Woman” have a hard time saying, “Pay for my french fries , Dude.” My firm belief that I should pay for my own taters resulted in divorce, when on my first date ever, I blatantly refused to have a man pay for my food- that man became my husband and then ex, when he became much too comfortable with me paying for things.

On the upside, I ended up with my Rockstar, who is of the opinion that he should pay for my fries. (and other assorted restaurant fare.) While this is a nice change, he is also of the opinion that if he lacks fundage for French fries, we mayn’t dine out- when this happens, I have no problem offering to pay, since any chance to pass up cooking immmediately thrills me.

Going deeper into this, I would like to state that I at no time expect any man to pay my bills. The only exception would be if one were to knock me up with 5 or 7 children (it is hoped not simultaneously) and I were to stay home and care for them in order to safe money on daycare. If this were to happen, my household would be immaculately clean and wondrous multi-cultural meals would be served nightly when my man arrived home from work. However, I would probably end up finishing my book, and proceed to make millions, therefore contributing to our monthly dollar accumulation.

I despise women who expect the man to pay for everything, because, I’m sorry- it is not the 17th century.

And so, as far as this subject is concerned, I would have to say a “Real Man” is one who expects to pay for the date, but is humble enough to allow the woman to buy her own damn French fries if she wants, or if the funds are needed.

A Little Note

There is a little habit that I have in my home life. I leave notes.

This habit most frequently manifests itself when I put together lunches for my Rockstar to take to work. These notes are quite un-important-“XOXO” and “Have a beauteous day with the fucktards” being the gist of them. I include them just to remind my Rockstar that I exist (as if he could ever forget) and to let him know that I think of him.

Last night, after returning from a hellish night as a Pizza Slut (I shall go into greater detail in a future post) I left some rent money for my Rockstar with a note letting him know that I’d have some more for him some time soon. (At least, that is the intention)

Now, the note thing is just my own little practice. I do not expect reciprocation, and have never received it. (This seems to be common in my relationship…) However, when I got up today, there was a little note with some of the money I had left for my Rockstar.

“You keep this. Go buy some shoes.”

I could not have thought of a more romantic thing for him to say.