3:33 p.m. - July 26, 2004
It is a cry for help, isn't it? In its own way?
Ate the leftover spinach ravioli earlier. A thought: Deplenish the freezer contents. Is deplenish acceptable? For right now it is.
Completed the fingerspelling section today and am now tasked with compiling the narrations for the DVD. Just what do I want Rita to say and when? There are 87 segments on the DVD and my brain makes a squishy sound when thinking of how to arrange everything.
So the big news is the IRS. Ten thousand. From 2002. Must investigate the formula used to determine the amount of self-employment tax to pay if one also has a regular job for which taxes are deducted. Let me tell you, I'm tired of this self-employment run. I want to go back to the classroom and teach literature or ASL, possibly even French. German, if I could get away with it. Want, want, want - useless to waste thought on a declarative un-action.
So this is my journal. See how it's fallen apart? A broken mishmash of nothing remotely similar to the burning questions and issues fermenting inside my head. The zeal to write is as passe as l'ancien regime, though my end isn't as ignominous.
Must send registration for the September conference.
At least there's a good spot: Not thinking about suicide. A barometer of stability, having been there before but not today.
It is frustrating to seek solace in writing and be unable to put one word after another with satisfaction. The din is shrill inside my head and will find egress via the ear canal.
