ISSUE: Spring 2012
Today I went to get the tax forms we
needed from the federal building, and
the thick, bald, simultaneously smug
and envious low-level bureaucrat
in his stupid no-color cube told me
they didn’t have them: he called them (as if
I’d asked for some boutique, Costa Rican
chocolate) specialty forms. Fuck him. Fuck
this small-town city. And as for the knee-
jerk advice—Positivity—fuck you.
