I will never get sick of you, lolcats.

We learn as children that “problem” is a relative term. Even a quick foray into epistemology suggests that we classify as problems only those conditions that fail our expectations; I don’t call it a “problem” that I continue to be unable to fly up into the air and shoot lasers out of my mouth, despite the certainty that learning to do so would improve my life, particularly when I’m in Target. But it’s not a problem because I never really thought I’d get it. This is why you always see footage of people smiling and dancing in Uzbekistan and whatnot: they are not aware that, from an empirical standpoint, they live on a big pile of shit. Here we arrive at a corollary to our first observation, which is that the problems of others are often astoundingly horrible compared to ours, yet paradoxically not very important. Basically, the problems of everybody down the Doing Okay Chain from us are mind-rendingingly abject, and those of everyone up the chain are risibly petty, but nothing in either direction is as big a deal as having to sit by the annoying lady at work. It’s Friday, empathy is asymptotically impossible, and the spectrum of problems is bizarre and alienating. Except right in the middle, where we are—that part is of dire urgency. Won’t you work your way toward it with me?

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Presidential candidate Donald Trump demands "the biggest (fudging) pizza you've ever (gol darn) seen, right in my (mouth.)"

I did my taxes yesterday, which went about as smoothly as a freelancer with multiple sources of income and virtually no records could reasonably expect. Between the self-employment tax and my ongoing, catastrophic failure to be married or own a home, I wound up giving back just over 36% of my adjusted gross income. For over a third of my working life in 2010, I worked for Uncle Sam.* And what did I get for my money? With no children in public school, no realistic hope of enjoying Social Security or Medicare, and little material interest in our decade-long project to educate/explode everyone in Afghanistan, I enjoyed few direct benefits. But it must be noted that the broader American system profited me indirectly. My dividend came in the form of civil liberties, the rule of law, Ke$ha, and all the other wonders our functioning governments make possible. Today is tax day, and it seems as good a moment as any to take a look at the America we bought with our hard-earned dollars. By “we,” I mean “those of us who make too much money to get free food stamps or medical care, but not enough money to induce Congress to give us a tax cut.” We’re the middle class, everyone loves us and is therefore free to treat us badly, and this is the Friday we paid for.

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