I am a happy taxpayer. I’ve been paying, with almost indecent cheer, since I was 12. (Technically, my first job was as a pre-teen, in government. Long story.) I have never, not once, had a problem. I’ve been audited, twice, and both times the audits came out in my favor, with tiny, additional refunds. Ten dollars, holla!
Then, a few years ago, a bunch of smarty-pants investment fund manager-types decided to have some fun with the mortgage market, tanked the economy, and a lot of companies either sank, or got taken over by larger companies that were backed by the Fed. Some of those big fish (one in particular) cared not for fine print on the mortgages they absorbed, and now the IRS thinks that for one year I didn’t own my house. I owned it for the 11 years previous, and for the two years since, but somehow not for that one, special-snowflake year.
Now I get to spend my evenings and weekends going through paperwork, filling out forms, and biting my nails, hoping that my proof is good enough to keep me from being bankrupted by an unexpected (and incorrect) tax bill. There is not enough Lithium in the world to chill me out, right now.