I am also a purger (which is apparently not a word, per Microsoft Word) by nature, at least when it comes to all things concrete. If I haven’t worn something in a year, out it goes. I don’t have my any of my high school year books, and I am absolutely terrible about taking photos. I take them on vacation, because I feel like I should. I take them of other people’s kids, because if I don’t, I feel like the asshole who doesn’t care about other people’s kids. I take them of my pets, sometimes. But really, the photos that I have are mostly donated by people kind enough to share their photos with me. It’s a weird thing for me; if I’m in the moment, I feel like I’m stepping out of it to document it, and somehow that takes away from the moment’s meaning. I’ve kept some old cards and love letters and the like, but honestly it’s more out of a sense of obligation. All this being said, I am terribly, terribly sentimental; but what I carry around in my head ultimately means more to me than any photo ever could, unless the photo makes me look exceptionally thin.
However, there comes a time, every year, when I lovingly, and sometimes painfully, recall all the places I have been, and the people I have been there with during the prior year, and that time, my friends, is tax time.
I am an independent contractor, which means I would be a fool if I didn’t go through my credit card bills and bank statements, and lovingly highlight write-offs, which are then transcribed to an Excel spreadsheet, and forwarded on to my accountant. I am pretty conservative when it comes to this sort of thing, as an IRS audit is not my idea of a good time. However, in truth, some of my “client entertainment” write offs would only be legitimate were I a hooker, and I am not a hooker, I am a real estate agent, which is several clicks lower than a hooker in our current caste system.
However, it’s the non-highlighted stuff that truly tells the story. It’s all in the financial records, and each year I get to relive the prior year. I went to
Should I die, my memoirs could be documented, with painful accuracy, from my financial records. And this stupid blog, of course.