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- To the floor and there we shall dance
While simmering gently in my little reverberating office I was interrupted by the appearance of some cake. The kitchen down the hallway had been witness to celebrations of some sort all day long—perhaps of a co-workers' day of undeath—and here was a plastic plate bearing a huge slice of the festivities. On the end of the hand was a lady who for some reason never looks anything other than happy. This frightens me no end.
In the dying minutes, before I was to head out of the office, the body of the voice of someone I vaguely remember hastily jotting down for some appointment a few hours prior walked in. It was his birthday as well, and the first time I made a call to the volunteer's helpline—I guess I should have done it for the first two returns I filled, but what could possilby go wrong? I'm covered. Dehydration probably hit full force since my mouth failed to contact any water within the spread of six hours in the open roofed oven.
Due to the GST and that anyone getting paid for anything has to have an ABN I had to fill in some damn form declaring my writings as a hobby.
Otherwise, forty-eight percent would be slashed and kept away from these itchy, flaky and inflammed hands as the money—just a mere fifty dollars—is considered payment for services rendered.
Tips are considered taxable income.
Saturday, 25 August 2001 - 06:20
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