SARS and a life of forgettable passwords

password

What I hate most about tax season isn’t trying to figure out what the codes and figures on my IRP5 mean (what does IRP stand for anyway and why, if there are five of them, do I only get one?). It’s trying to figure out what the fuck my password is. Every year, I think I’m being so smart by using whatever the hell it is I use. The following year, I have no clue what is.

Worse, I ask it for a hint, and I’ve written something smartass and cryptic like ‘bank’. Only, you know how often I lock myself out of my internet banking? So often it’s kinda shameful. So which bank password did I mean? What was the password before the password before the one I’m now using?

‘Fine!’, I yell at the site. ‘Just give me the dam security questions. I can answer the hell out of those.’

Except I can’t.

‘What’s your mother’s maiden name?’ MY MOTHER HAS TWO. Dammit, my family believe in divorce like Cape Town believes in Tim Noakes.

‘What’s your favourite hobby?’ DAMMIT. 2013 self, what would you have said to this? Reading? Writing? Drinking? Crying in the dark? I DON’T HAVE HOBBIES.

‘What’s your favourite holiday destination?’ I don’t take holidays! How would I know?! The last time I took a proper holiday was in 2010!

‘What’s your favourite make of car?’ THE KIND THAT DRIVE?!

Eventually, I did defeat the powers of rotating security questions (fine, I phoned the helpline). But to help 2015 Jess out, I’ve not only saved a smartass password hint, I’ve also saved all the answers to the security questions.

You may have bested me so far, SARS, but you will not win this war.

(Yeah, no, you will)

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