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Dear H&R Block,
AHAHAHAHA, NO. You want me to vote for your Superbowl ad, fine, I can do that (despite being one of four Americans to not watch the Superbowl) but only - there is always a caveat - if you will let me fucking log in and file my fucking taxes.
Here's a hint: If I don't remember my password, and my login, and, in fact, I last logged in prior to 2006 or whatever the fuck because I filed wit Turbo Tax last year, YOUR job is to match my name, email, and date of birth and send me my login name. Not, please not, is it to shit yourself and deny that I exist. ADDITIONALLY! If I actually get to a security question, it's helpful if you have the security question I answered be the one I'm asked. As it is, I answered the three it could possibly be, and you insisted that I did not exist. Presumably what happened is that I actually tripped an automatic logout, but it certainly looked like the server was shitting itself in the corner.
So. When I can file my taxes with you is when I will vote for your fucking Superbowl ad, assuming we're talking some category like "Never to be seen againl" or something.
No love,
Me
*****
It's probably wrong that I'm outlining my massive women-in-fandom post rather than read my book for book group or turn in any applications or prep for the phone interview tonight.
It is probably even more wrong that the outline, right now, looks something like this:
I. Fandom hates women.
II. Fandom hates men.
III. Fandom probably hates your mom, too.
But I need to outline. I'm having too many thought-spasms. I have one idea that's problog stuff, and one that's potentially both, and two that go to this blog, and I cannot keep them straight any longer.
*****
Also, my meeting with my Worksource representative today was fine, right up to the one on one, where I suddenly and completely had an urge to punch the advisor in the face with a fishbat. It's fun when people are paid to give you wrong advice. But if that's the sort of job that's going these days, I could so do that.
"My child swallowed poison! Help!"
"Okay, first you put the oven on 350 and let it heat. The oven, not your kid. You want to baste your kid in brandy while you wait for the oven to heat."
That kind of thing.
AHAHAHAHA, NO. You want me to vote for your Superbowl ad, fine, I can do that (despite being one of four Americans to not watch the Superbowl) but only - there is always a caveat - if you will let me fucking log in and file my fucking taxes.
Here's a hint: If I don't remember my password, and my login, and, in fact, I last logged in prior to 2006 or whatever the fuck because I filed wit Turbo Tax last year, YOUR job is to match my name, email, and date of birth and send me my login name. Not, please not, is it to shit yourself and deny that I exist. ADDITIONALLY! If I actually get to a security question, it's helpful if you have the security question I answered be the one I'm asked. As it is, I answered the three it could possibly be, and you insisted that I did not exist. Presumably what happened is that I actually tripped an automatic logout, but it certainly looked like the server was shitting itself in the corner.
So. When I can file my taxes with you is when I will vote for your fucking Superbowl ad, assuming we're talking some category like "Never to be seen againl" or something.
No love,
Me
*****
It's probably wrong that I'm outlining my massive women-in-fandom post rather than read my book for book group or turn in any applications or prep for the phone interview tonight.
It is probably even more wrong that the outline, right now, looks something like this:
I. Fandom hates women.
II. Fandom hates men.
III. Fandom probably hates your mom, too.
But I need to outline. I'm having too many thought-spasms. I have one idea that's problog stuff, and one that's potentially both, and two that go to this blog, and I cannot keep them straight any longer.
*****
Also, my meeting with my Worksource representative today was fine, right up to the one on one, where I suddenly and completely had an urge to punch the advisor in the face with a fishbat. It's fun when people are paid to give you wrong advice. But if that's the sort of job that's going these days, I could so do that.
"My child swallowed poison! Help!"
"Okay, first you put the oven on 350 and let it heat. The oven, not your kid. You want to baste your kid in brandy while you wait for the oven to heat."
That kind of thing.