forty eight hours
Forty. Eight. Hours. Doing. Taxes.
Forty. Eight. Hours.
That means all day Sunday, all night Sunday, all day Monday, all night Monday.
And also even part of Tuesday.
Those are forty–eight hours I am never getting back.
That is not even preparing or filing taxes either. That is just going through receipts and allocating and compiling numbers so I can give them to tax savvy accountant peoples who actually even know what this numerology from hell means.
There is tax catastrophe too. I am seriously supposed to have forms. All kinds of forms. From all kinds of places. And, hello —
I have no idea where they went. They are just gone.
So part of that forty–eight hours was ripping up the whole loft sifting through all nefarious dens of paper missing–forms–I–would–never–toss could have found their ways to. And —
So I had to call and email all sorts of people for emergency replacement forms.
And [OH MY GOD] hard copy post office mail a signature.
[This is for sure why my mother told me to be a dental hygienist. One employer. One form. I am sorry I doubted you Mom. Who knew it was about forms?]
Meanwhile, The Cougher is busy dying noisily next door which only amps the angst wattage around here. Jesus Christ. Cougher Guy! Buy a lozenge!