Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Accounting for Dummies
So I signed up for an accounting class for non-accountants, in the attempt to learn how to manage the mana that comes and goes from the label, record sales, pomade sales, recording costs, etc. and tonight was the first class. Wanna know how it went? Well, it felt like I was trying to force my head through a keyhole. Over and over and over again. Did I mention that the lecture took place in a high school classroom, so I got to relive all things I loved about high school?! Yay everyone! Big fat balls of 'YAY!' I can't decide which turned me on more, the rock hard partially molded seats, (which offended bones I didn't even know I had), or the non negotiable way the desk domineered me into the same posture for hours at a time. Good God, I would have done anything for a fucking bean bag or a patch of grass. But the best part, was how the teacher continued to talk and explain blah blah blah expendables, debit, receivables, while my eyes glossed over like an ice rink. Dorothy Hamill was performing her greatest hits, while I stared on into the void. Perhaps I should have told the truth at the beginning of class when we all were asked to introduce ourselves and state our reason for being there. If I would have told the truth, it would have sounded something like this, "Hi. My name is Colleen, and I am taking this class so that I can learn how to hide as much money as possible without going to jail. The IRS can kiss my fucking ass, the non-supreme-court-abiding-cartel-scumbag-shake-down-mother-fuckers." In hindsight, it was perhaps better that I didn't reveal my true identity. After all, I was the only person in there with two-toned hair and tattoos, and the instructor was a granny. Every single person in the room seemed to twinkle at the idea of arranging numbers in little, perfectly aligned rows that always mathematically resolved themselves in such a perfect little way, and it made me feel like a whore in church. I was thinking, "Man, this is how I feel about shoes. NOT numbers." So, I wrestled with the idea of just walking out of the class 3 hours into it, or staying the extra hour to announce my well thought-out dismissal speech. The final hour was like trying to sit through "Teen Wolf" in Japanese. I survived the crazy number gym gone wild, and felt 2 degrees smarter and 5 years older. I said to myself,"Screw this. I am going to go buy a copy of "The Dummy's Guide to Accounting," and read it in the privacy of my own down couch. They really should consider publishing, "The Dummy's Guide to Tax Evasion." I personally believe it would be a best seller.