I’m so mad at myself right now I could just scream, like actually physically scream until my throat is raw and my neighbors call the cops again because this is beyond ridiculous. It’s 2 AM and I’m just sitting here, staring at the pile on my desk, the same pile that’s been there since… God, since probably late September? Early October? I don’t even remember anymore, it’s just become part of the furniture, a permanent fixture in my peripheral vision designed to induce low-grade panic attacks whenever I walk into the room. It’s the tax documents. All of them. The 1099-NECs from clients, the receipts for software subscriptions I absolutely needed but now just feel like another expense I can’t justify, the W-2 from that one abysmal part-time gig I took for three months before realizing I’d rather starve than deal with corporate bureaucracy again. Every single piece of paper is a tiny, mocking monument to my own complete inability to handle basic adult responsibilities. And the worst part is, I *know* what needs to be done. I’m not clueless, I just… don’t do it. Every morning, the sun hits the corner of the desk just so, illuminating the stack in this almost angelic glow, and I’ll walk past it, coffee in hand, and feel this tightening in my chest. It’s like a physical weight, I swear. I can almost taste the bitter tang of it at the back of my throat. And then I’ll tell myself, “Okay, today. Today’s the day I sit down and do it. It’ll take an hour, maybe two, max, and then it’ll be DONE.” But then a client email comes in, or I have a design revision, or my roommate wants to go grab a quick lunch, and suddenly it’s 7 PM and the light’s gone and the pile just blends into the shadows again, another day wasted, another opportunity to actually *resolve* something completely blown. And the anger just boils over. It’s not just at the taxes, obviously. It’s at myself for letting it get this far, for this ridiculous, pathetic procrastination that feels less like laziness and more like some sort of self-sabotage. Like I actually enjoy living with this low hum of anxiety in the background. My friend Chloe came over last week, just popped by unannounced like she always does, and she saw the stack and just raised an eyebrow. Didn't say anything, which was even worse. Just that look, you know? That “oh, still haven’t dealt with *that* yet” look. I felt my face flush immediately, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I mumbled something about being swamped with client work, which, fine, I *am* swamped, but that’s not really an excuse, is it? What infuriates me the most is that I’m usually so on top of things. My design files are meticulously organized, my client communications are prompt, I actually meet deadlines, which is more than I can say for some people in this city. But this one thing, this stupid, essential, grown-up thing, has just paralyzed me. I keep thinking about how much I’m probably going to owe, how much money I’ve already blown on rent and overpriced oat milk lattes and that concert ticket I absolutely didn’t need but bought anyway because everyone else was going. The cost of living here is already insane, and the thought of another huge bill… it just makes me want to pull the covers over my head and disappear. I had this weird dream the other night where the pile of papers was just growing and growing, getting taller than my apartment building, and I was trying to climb it but every time I reached for a document, it just crumbled into dust in my hands. It wasn’t even a scary dream, just… frustrating. Utterly, completely frustrating. Like I’m constantly just out of reach of something I need to grasp, but I can’t quite get my hands on it. And now I’m here, wide awake, scrolling through anonymous confession forums because somehow, telling a bunch of strangers on the internet about my impending financial doom feels slightly less humiliating than telling literally anyone in my actual life. Because if I told Chloe, she'd probably offer to help, and then I'd feel even worse, like a total incompetent. Or worse, she'd tell me to just "do it," like it's that simple, like I haven't been telling myself that exact same thing for the past six months. I just wish I could snap my fingers and have it all magically done, paid, filed away. Like, I’m good at illustrating a whole damn magazine layout, but apparently I can’t figure out a basic tax form. It’s ridiculous. And I’m so, so angry at myself for letting this mess fester. It’s like I’m deliberately sabotaging my own peace of mind. Every single morning I wake up and that pile is there, a silent accusation, just waiting for me to fail. And I’m so tired of feeling like I’m already failing before I even pour my first cup of coffee.