DISCLAIMER: Don’t listen to the following while driving, operating heavy machinery, or writing a blog post for a client about Peyronie’s disease where you must subtly use the keyword phrase “why is my dick bent” three times in 600 words. Only listen when it’s safe to relax and you can drift into a deep sleep, which we understand might negate the whole purpose of this meditation when you wake up three hours later, drooling, with the sticky note that says TAXES!!! affixed to the mole on your left cheek.

Remember, this guided meditation is intended for entertainment purposes only, and the authors, producers, their relatives, friends, associates, and pets accept no responsibility or liability if you somehow figure out a way to injure yourself while meditating or you miss the April 15 tax deadline. We’re YouTubers, not your mother. To that end, if you like this video, please give it a thumbs up and consider subscribing to our channel.

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Begin by finding a familiar, comfortable posture. Corpse Pose. The fetal position. That straddling thing you do on the toilet in the Starbucks where you set up shop every day.

Bring your attention to your breath and be mindful of the present moment. Because the more mindful you are of the present moment, the more connected you’ll be to your surroundings instead of the toxic desire to bludgeon that annoying Facebook friend who posts every January, “Taxes are done! Already got my refund!”

Breathe in and out, in and out. Let all intrusive thoughts—UFOs, climate change, how to legitimately write off that “business trip” to the Bahamas—fade away.

Now, picture a body of water: a waterfall or raging river or bathtub plopped in the middle of a meadow like they have in those Cialis commercials. Basically, any type of water source with drowning capabilities. Feel the rush of water surge upwards, starting in your bunions, to your cankles, to the left knee that’ll need replacing in fifteen years if Medicare still exists, to your paunchy menopausal middle, to your puffy eyes. Let the water flow out of those puffy peepers, trickling down your cheeks as you envision IRS Form 1040 in all its Helvetica-fonts glory.

Silently repeat, What does it mean? What does it MEAN?

Now, imagine a bird, a squawking seagull. YOU ARE THE SQUAWKING SEAGULL, soaring higher and higher. Luxuriate in the freedom that comes from flight and the joy that results from releasing the entire contents of your bowels, including the ketchup-doused French fries from The Clam Shack, onto your accountant’s Beemer.

Bring yourself back to your breath. Because those who breathe must file taxes. Yet take comfort in knowing that even when you stop breathing, this isn’t an ending, but merely a transition to Someone Else’s Problem.

Picture this Someone Else. Send them love. Send them white light. Send them loving white light. And ideally, before you kick it, send them a good bottle of Scotch.

Return to your breath because you’re getting off track. Breathe in and out, in and out. Congratulate yourself on doing something that’s completely involuntary.

Lean into your tax-prep anxiety. Smother it with sloppy puppy dog kisses after said puppy dog licks its butt.

Let go of the shoulda-paid-my-quarterly-estimates-instead-of-starting-a-podcast negativity and embrace that loving white light as if it were a giant hug from an Italian grandmother or a bubblegum pink Snuggie.

Now, imagine your tax-prep anxiety as a shiny red balloon with a long sticky string that was once hanging out your cat’s bunghole. Release the string. Watch the balloon as it floats away, hits electric wires, and bursts into flames, nothing more than burnt plastic falling to the ground like a used condom thrown out a car window at a highway rest stop.

Know that it’s OK to mix metaphors, to allow random images to float through your head—the gross stuff you need to drink for colonoscopy prep, Bully toilet bowl cleaner, Kim K’s tush, bidets. Marvel at the mystery of it all, especially accounting acronyms like AP, P&L, COGs.

Allow nothing but positivity to exude from your pores, masking the fact you haven’t showered in five days, and take it—the positivity, not the smell—with you as you s l o w l y surface and go about rifling through all the receipts you promised yourself you’d “digitize” but haven’t.

Remember, we are all in the same tax-prep boat, connected to the same Source, even though Source hasn’t paid federal income taxes in infinity due to receiving a $1 annual salary and setting up that sketchy offshore bank account in the Caymans.

Namaste, bitches.