Glee and Taxes

It's April 14th. . . which means I'm constantly about 9 seconds away from ripping all my hair out and/or drinking vodka like someone on Intervention who just broke into the padlocked liquor cabinet their parents had installed after they realized their seventy-year-old scotch was used in place of milk on a bowl of Captain Crunch, and the vodka went missing in the amount of time it took for them to go grab some cigarettes from the other room. (Those vodka-alcoholics Do Not mess around. They chug that shit like it's water and they just finished a marathon, including high-fiving the camera guy for their accomplishment, and then passing out in the living room.)

So, instead of turning to heavy drug use, or self-inflicted hair loss, I took a two minute break to watch this - because it's on my Tivo, patiently waiting for me to get home and that's what's going to get me to power through - the fact that I can spend all day trying to decide who I would rather have a long walk on the beach with (read: make out with), Mr. Schue (heavily make out with) or Cory Monteith (and possibly some third base action). Mmmmmm, 17 year old Cory. (Sometimes you need to skip right past second base - because a lot of the time that just involves some awkward, "Oh you have . . . but you looked so . . . wait where am I?" and then boys around the nation are cursing Victoria and her stupid, eye-hand-tricking padded bras.)