Taxes, like death, are inevitable, and every year this greedy government not only requests that you send it a piece of your hard-earned money, but also sacrifice your time and sanity in a hare-brained scheme undoubtably aimed at saving itself the costs of hiring more workers. Of course, I'm talking about tax self-assessment. The HMRC website has been more effective at declining my patience for life than most other thing in life, and if I ever chose to stop breathing, they would find a note with these four letters scribbled from top to bottom, row by row, both sides. The absolute BALLACHE this website has caused me in simply trying to log in has rendered me infertile by this point, which may be for the better as this means no children of mine will have to experience this man-made horror (if one uses the definition of 'man; liberally). I have finally completed this Sisyphean task, and now I am rewarded with more of the same, repeatedly submitting the same information over and over to appease some sadistic higher power. If I could go back in time I would stop myself from living in civilisation, because even starving in the winter alone somewhere in the woods would be preferable to the years, hair, and nerves I have lost by interacting with this bloody site.
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