Dear Jim at the Oregon Department of Revenue,

When I filed my taxes in February last year I just assumed that I would be receiving my refund. When I got a letter that I needed to prove the identity of my five dependent children, I forked over the hundred bucks for birth certificates, without calling you a fucktard like I wanted to because I understood audits happen and am glad to be a citizen of this fine state.

When I got the notice that the birth certificates weren’t enough and that our dependents wouldn’t be considered exemptions and we now had a large tax bill, I didn’t send back an envelope full of dog shit because this sort of mix up does happen.

I wrote to request an appeal and waited. And waited. And waited. This January you called and assured me it was all a paperwork issue. Something didn’t get pulled from the federal returns. Everything was fine. We had a nice recorded chat. I breathed a sigh of relief and was again a happy citizen of Oregon, whose children did indeed exist.

Two weeks ago, as tax time rolled around once more, you called again. Now we needed to prove “residency” for our five children. Not in the state, but in our home. I’m sorry I flipped out. I was confused when you said I could use driver’s licenses or military ID cards because we both know they’re all under ten. I shouldn’t have told you to “shut your fuckin’ pie hole.” I was tired. My non-existent toddler was up all night with non-existent vomiting. I invited you to come to dinner where you could observe them all. You calmly replied that even a home visit wouldn’t prove they lived here year round.

Jim, when you said it would have been much simpler if we had some sort of court ordered visitation schedule, instead of the fact that they’ve lived with the same two parents since birth, I’m sorry I called you a “pathetic douchebag loser” and a “dumbass fuckwit.” My children shouldn’t have to hear those kinds of words coming out of their mother. If I hadn’t been so tired, I could have come up with something snappier. You said that a letter from their pediatrician would clear it all up, for real.

Today you called and said the pediatrician’s letter wouldn’t be enough after all. There has been some sort of suspension of disbelief, and my children may exist and live in my home, but you needed proof of “support.”

For the baby you said you’d accept receipts for cans of formula. He’s breastfed. I’m sending you a photo of my naked breasts surrounded by giant carrots, which I will then eat to make his food.

You said that daycare receipts are perfect. I care for my own kids but this is a picture of me giving my toddler his breakfast in a sheer black thong.

For my middle son, you said proof of any kind of clothing purchase would be fine. I get most of his things at Goodwill because five kids are a lot to provide for, but maybe you can accept this photo of my bare toes covered in whipped topping.

You said that my daughter’s dental bill would be alright, but why not take this picture of my tongue running over my red, lacquered lips?

As for my oldest daughter, she outgrew most of her clothes this winter and I might have a receipt or two from a shopping trip we took, but I’m sending you this snapshot. It’s not a position I usually find myself in, being past thirty and not as flexible as I used to be, but I think it might be just what you needed.

I’m glad we finally got this all sorted out and let me know if you need anything else.

Mary Munoz
A Proud Oregonian