I'm sitting in the Santa Rosa JC parking lot (one of many, actually) writing in a spiral notebook. It's a good thing, too, because if I didn't have to get here so ridiculously early to get a place to park, I might not have found a quiet time and place to write.

Usually I'm not alone in my car on these Tuesday nights, but Suzanne had a school function (at the one where she works, not here), so we're meeting in class this week. I was sort of hoping she'd pull her red Mustang into one of the spaces next to me, but so far it hasn't happened.

Oops. Here she is. Yay.

Okay, class is over and I'm home. I must have looked bad, because the teacher asked me (in sign language, of course) if I was okay. I told him I was just tired, because I don't know the sign for "my boss is driving me crazy by trying to make the company profits look better than they are for the bank and worse than they are for the IRS, so I'm worn out from working at cross purposes with myself all day long." I know "IRS," but that's about it. So I settled for "tired."