Hint: all you have to do to keep me updating regularly is supply me with a high speed in-home internet connection. I'll expect an influx of donations next time I move.
I wouldn't be an American citizen if I didn't make some sort of references to taxes. I filled out the forms months ago, but, recoiling in horror from the amount I must pay, I stuffed the whole mess into a file on the top shelf of my closet until yesterday. As an added depressing diversion this year, I discovered that if my parents didn't claim me as a dependent, I would be getting a $200 refund. Of course, I'd be out several thousand dollars if my parents didn't support me. C'est la vie.
My own slant on taxes is this: I favor a social state, so taxes are fine with me in principle. However, I'm firmly convinced that full-time students deserve tax-exempt status. I'm working hard enough to get good grades, pay the rent and not starve- it's absurd that the government would begrudge me the few hundred dollars I contribute to the unthinkably huge national budget.
[...]
During intermission of Angels in America last night, Gina was thirsty. "I'm going to find a coke machine. Kristin, want to come with?" She linked arms with me and we went down the stairs to the lobby. No coke machine. "I think there was one right around the corner." We braved the cold and the smokers outside and found.. no coke machine. In fact, around the corner was the Loring Bar & Cafe, one of the most upscale (and expensive) places in Minneapolis. Gina got a feisty look in her eye: "You want to go in and see if they have cokes to go? C'mon, I'll buy you a coke." I hemmed and hawed a little, but gave in when I saw she wasn't just kidding. We went in, ignoring the "you must be 21 and have valid ID to enter" sign on the door, and breezed through the lobby to the bar. "Could we have two cokes to go?"
"Ummm... we don't do 'to go'." The bartender was clearly annoyed.
"Could you just look and see if you have any paper cups or anything?" Gina batted her eyelashes.
"Are these okay?" The bartender pointed at some plastic cups.
"Just fine."
After being tipped well, the bartender wasn't nearly so annoyed, and Gina and I were the proud owners of the most expensive cokes west of the Mississippi. But then, how often can you get cokes in plastic cups from the most expensive bar in town?