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Wednesday - February 06, 2002
Tax Or Treat
So, it's tax season. And I have to face the nightmare that is my taxes.
Phone sluts usually tend to work as independent contractors. What this means is that I am my own business. For all you little girls who want to grow up to be phone sluts, what this means is that you pay your own income tax and the employer's share as well. You do this by setting up a pre-pay plan where you pay quarterly so that you don't get slammed with it all at once.
Or, rather, that's what you're supposed to do. That's what responsible phone sluts do. That's what rational, mature, logical phone sluts do.
It's not what I did.
And, to make matters worse, this particular phone slut is a recovering work-a-holic who still dabbles in her ex profession. So, I have the added bonus of trying to decipher the nightmare that are self-employment AND employee taxes.
I hear you all now.
Hot. Sexy. Tell us more about withholding and social security. Come on, baby get REALLY nasty. Do it. Do it. Say it. Name it. NAME THE FUCKING FORMS. TELL US ABOUT HOW YOU LONG TO E-FILE. YOU FUCKING WHORE.
So, I've sort of found an accountant. He is a friend of my mothers who - aside from being tickled to death to be let in on my secret - has promised to keep mum. Which would be nice - except all I can keep hearing in my head is that line about three people only being able to keep a secret if two of them are dead.
Which begs an interesting question. Is it illegal to kill an accountant? Would anyone really mind? I just ask for future reference.
Now to interrupt with a public service message - Darlinggirl, you're email addy keeps bouncing. To everyone else who hasn't heard back from me yet: I'm getting there. I promise.
Also, it is at this time that I have to offer a generous scream of thanks to Sinn for the new diary software. I'm telling you, she's amazing. Regardless of how myn Pepto-Bismol décor is pish-poshed, the layout continues to be something I'm particularly fond of.
And, speaking of things I'm fond of. I don't know if it is the fact that we're creeping up on Valentine's Day, or repeat viewings of Chocolat, but I have not been able to get my favorite sinful pleasures out of my head.
I miss living in civilized places where I could frequent shops carrying foreign treats and stand a good chance of being killed in a bout of good old American road rage. Okay, well, I'm willing to sacrifice the road rage. I miss the chocolate.
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