The Culmination of a Half-Year of Non-Thought (Part 1)

Where to begin, where to begin. A statement, not a question, because there is no question inasmuch as to the fact that things have indeed happened to me. The percolation of non-thoughts, for I can't say I have truly been thinking, and deeds, for they are actions in name alone, of a morbidly malcontent societal zombie has broken down the tirade dams erected against the brazen beast of a supposed civilized world.

Too much, no enough, and somewhere in-between. Like the pivotal point of a movie plot, the highest moment where heroes become truly heroic and demons and villains become their most disturbing incarnations of the apathetic beast. I sit in a kind of limbo, only now having sinned and eaten of the fruit and seen truth, but I can't call it wisdom, for to admit to myself any form of wisdom would be deceitful, and only cause to stand out the lark that is my own true retardation.

I think, if anything, I should throw back the clock into the previous era of months past. That being September of a year now currently disassociating itself from the current year. Roughly in this stretch, I began to receive mail from a government I probably elected, but through shenanigans, the bureaucratic behemoth has become another malcontent and is in itself seeking debtors, even those not indebted to the system. Or at least, believed not to be indebted to the system.

The letter, THE LETTER, held in my grubby hands and torn into like a starving child in Africa, was government issue. Obviously of importance. I remember checking the mail on a lunch break while I was home, making lunch itself. A good day was destroyed in that instant. Oh, but it was. It proclaimed in not-too-subtle language that I owed to the government a large sum of money, and that if I did not reproduce these misplaced funds owing, would find myself at the pointy end of litigation. The thoughts that began to fester in my mind at this point were cancerous at worst.

Returning to work, I found myself relating my new conundrum with coworkers. Oh, how this must be wrong. I had yet to file taxes for the current province of residence, so my address should have technically been somewhere else, but no, the government had in a moment of putrid, blindingly-bright epiphany, found me. Upon returning home, I seized upon the phone. A conqueror taking what he felt he owed.

I called the various revenue agencies within Canada. Two numbers. When passing on my personal information, they assured me that I didn't owe a single cent to the government. This was good. But still, the lingering poison of doubt left its presence upon me. In fact, one of the agencies even said that this might be the possibility of being fraud! Indulgent to this thought, I left it as is. A month passed until September became October. The day before I left for my folks place, a rainy day, my phone rang and I answered.

It was a woman. A Christine, if memory serves. She alleged that she worked with the CRA, or Canada Revenue Agency, and that once she had my name, wanted to know if I had the sum owed to the government. I, at this point, held my temper. Barely. Fraught with an internal rage burning brightly, eyes I'm sure glimmering with the utmost vengeance to be sworn upon this rabid, spiteful harlot and her ilk, her kin, her children and grandchildren whom I would consume in fire for centuries. But none of this was elucidated from my lips. Instead, a pointed remark: "I don't owe the government anything."

There was of course very pointed confusion on her end. Obviously this was not the remark she wanted, and she asked, nay, demanded clarification on my part as to the how's and why's that would come about such an outcome as me not actually owing money to the giant tentacle monster poised atop Parliament Hill. I clarified: "I've already contacted the CRA and they assure me that I don't owe any money. In fact, your timeline for past infractions as to my indebtedness to the government via lack of payment is indeed fraudulent at best, as in your earliest indication of slipping to pay taxes, I was still in highschool."

Oh, but now she is doubly confused. This isn't right. Her data is wrong. She begins to say that, no, it can't be wrong, because she FEELS it is right. I again reiterate my point, even going so far as to give my birthdate for clarification. I can feel the heat of a light shining through the receiver on my phone, the kind of giant spotlights used in prisons to find prisoners. She asks me for a specific point of information, and after a moment of thought, I give in.

The sorries begin to gush, the dam broken and the watery equivalent of apologetic-ese, a disease suffered by many North Americans, asserts itself. It's so her fault, and she is so very, very sorry. The person they are looking for has my name (except my middle name), once had my home phone number (two years before), and even lived at my residence! (again, within the previous two years). The coincidence of this and the magnitude of likelihood of this happening are exponential as if to be impossible.

I got to my parents house very thankful that Thanksgiving.