Here’s the thing, ok? You can’t possibly understand the horrible and suffocating effects of a phobia unless you have a phobia, ok? And I have a phobia. More than one. And you have less than one. Zero, ok?
So don’t try to tell me that I can just get over it, ok? Because I can’t. No one can, ok? A phobia is a condition. It takes a lot of work and therapy to overcome it. And even then, you’re not really rid of it, ok? You can just tolerate living with it.
So don’t try to pressure me into paying taxes, ok? It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I’m really really scared to.
I’ve been going to therapy twice a week, ok? We work on special exercises to try to get me to be more comfortable with the whole idea. Wanda, my therapist, promises to give me an orange. Then, when she gives it to me, a section is missing. Then she uses the orange section she took to fill holes in her desk, feed her cat, or teach a child. Usually I end up hiding in a quivering heap under the ottoman. But I’m making progress, ok?
No, man, I’m not afraid of an audit. Go ahead. Audit me. Don’t you see how irrelevant that is? I can’t pay taxes, ok? I just can’t! I know it’s irrational, but please! Don’t take them, ok! I’ll freak out! I’ll start swinging, and I take no responsibility for my actions! I’ve been known to kill things! Ahhh, ok!
Ok, I’m not known to kill things. But I will wig out, ok? No, but seriously, I have this phobia. So please, respect that. Leave me the whole orange. It’ll be better for everyone, ok?