I hate quarterly estimated taxes. I hate it even more when I have to file those quarterly estimated taxes for a general partnership and two LLCs. I hate recordkeeping, I hate talking about recordkeeping, I hate thinking about recordkeeping.
I hate being in the same room with a computer that has any Quicken product installed on it. I hate your ugly little stupid piece of shit kid for falling down a flight of stairs at a party, I hate you for hiring a lawyer and generally being an obnoxious cunt, and I hate that lawyer for suing one of the LLCs.
I hate paper in general, come to think of it. I want all books that are worth reading to be certified by a ruling independent body appointed by the government and I want those books to be printed on some kind of shiny space age elastic product to help differentiate between shitty books and things I actually want to read.
When I reach over and grab something, I want to feel the tactile response to know whether it’s a book by Matthew Lesko or PG Wodehouse, Robert Kiyosaki or Benjamin Graham, James Frey or Ernest Hemingway, that little shit who wrote Eragon or George RR Martin, Tom Clancy or Kurt Vonnegut.
I hate people who ask me questions- unless the question is “do you want a blowjob?” or “do you want to go see a movie and then go out some beer afterwards with us?.” I hate people who ask me what I do for a living.
I hate people who don’t know what the word ‘amalgamation’ means in the rare instance when I actually try and tell people what I honestly do, and it’s not me being my usual sarcastic self by telling them I’m an elevator repairman who moonlights as a male prostitute for truckers at rest stops along I-95. Discretion is my policy, gloryhole blowjobs at 2 in the morning in a bathroom next to a Nathan’s and a Cinnabon. 1 for $14.95, 2 for $21.95 monthly plans starting as low as $29.95.
I hate the government for not funding the SBA as well as they should. I already know what I’m doing, but I think it’s pretty shitty that people just starting small businesses generally have no idea what the fuck they’re doing and nowhere to turn to for information if they’re entering a market they’re not familiar with.
Any time I’ve ever entered a new market I was interested in I got hit in the face by seminars at hotels off the Florida turnpike and free continental breakfasts. I got hit with do-it-yourself kits and MLMs who have ‘footholds’ in every industry.
I can see why people accept working a 9-5, making $15/hr for the rest of their lives and spending the few hours a day they have during the week getting hammered and trying to have fun. I can see why people like not having a crisis on the weekend.
I can understand wanting a career instead of supplying other people with careers and being responsible for their careers. Of course, these are things I only understood once I became a business owner.
I hate you for thinking my parents bought my Corvette just because your parents bought your Porsche, for thinking my watch was a gift from my grandmother or that I’m working too hard in the gym.
I hate the fact that you think I can’t buy a Vantage just because I have a framed picture of it, when the reality is I’m 11th on the list at Champion Audi for an R8 and I’m waiting to see how the GT-R turns out.
Most of all, I hate you for thinking I’m involved with all these things to win the admiration of people like you, as opposed to the reality of the situation which is that I’ve been poor, I’ve been fat, I’ve been innumerate, I love cars and bikes and I’ve been sick.
You literally mean less than nothing to me. You, in my eyes, actually exist as a negative. I see you, and the shitty clubs littered up and down the beaches, and the guys wearing Aqua Di Gio and Axe who are [b]all[/b] wearing jeans, a too-expensive black dress shirt with frilly shit on it/a too-expensive t-shirt with frilly shit on it and black dress shoes- I see you all as a gaping blackhole of stupidity and ignorance.
I hate that every guy in South Florida under the age of 45 looks like a guido, and I hate that I’m the only one who can see that they’re balding because I’m taller than they are.
I already want your kids off my yard. I live in a condo, I don’t even have a fucking yard. I want them off. I want them off my sidewalk. I don’t care that you got a new set of tits, that you’ve fucked your way up the NBA like a cat with a torn asunder vagina climbing a tree made out of black dicks.
I hate that I cannot leave the state of Florida without liquidating my assets or hiring a full-time property manager who’ll end up screwing me anyway. I hate that every bad thing comes from this state.
I hate that every fucking woman from 16 to 45 from New York, Southern California and South Florida is mentally defective. I hate that women from Long Island are so crazy, that in the words of someone other than me, “I wouldn’t date a girl from Long Island if you paid me a weekly fucking salary.”
Now that I think about it, I’ve gone off the rails with regards to my rant, and hate is such a strong word (which is why I like it so much). I think I’m going to try to move out of state anyway. To a place where there is no paper, and no life coaches, and less than 3 Starbucks per square mile.
But first, I have to get back to work on my quarterly estimated taxes. So I can give the information to my accountant. Who should be the one doing this.