My laptop says it’s Sunday. Normally I’d be horrified by the realization that I’d gone out on a Saturday night—so gauche—but thanks to the MDMA, I do not care. I am thrilled it is Sunday, the day of rest and, more importantly, the day of the Lord. Tomorrow is Monday, which means I can go to Subtropical to see Beau. And on Tuesday, I will see my father, like a good, well-adjusted daughter.

Tuesday afternoon works for me, I write back. I work remotely for Elon, so I’ll just bring my laptop. I figure I can get some readings done while I am there. It will be nice to get out of the tiny sliver of Los Angeles where I spend all my time. I add, And we don’t start filming until the new year. The cherry on top.

Great, my dad writes back. I’ll find a coffee shop in between us and get back to you.

Cool, I write back, with the sunglasses emoji.

It is now completely dark outside my windows. I love this about December, how it shifts dramatically from violent sunlight to pitch dark without warning. I feel more comfortable in the dark. I turn on my lava lamp and watch the room glow.

I decide to make a meme to take advantage of the effects of the lingering MDMA in my system. I read online that MDMA has a half-life of forty hours, meaning I have another twenty-six hours to feel positive.

I take that viral photo of Donald Trump looking directly into the solar eclipse and put each sign on Trump, then list each sign’s greatest toxic temptation as the eclipse. It’s stupid and obvious and likely to go viral.

Virgo … an opportunity for self-loathing.

Cancer … a wounded puppy

Scorpio … unrequited love.

Leo … the sound of their own name.

DAWN.

All the Ice Blended drinks are starting to show on my ass. I’m in the dressing room of an overpriced boutique in the plaza, trying on a teal sundress because I want it to be summer, and inside this windowless temperature-controlled room, I can pretend it’s July. I do a little twirl and the dress flies up to reveal my bubble butt.

“Doing okay in there, Dawn?” the shopgirl asks.

“Yep!” Hearing my own name perks me up a bit.

I admire the dress in the mirror. It frames my tits well and brings out the blue in my eyes, but I don’t want to get too attached to it, as I can’t afford it. Tara would have bought me this dress. Jen would have bought me this dress. And now I have no one to buy me this dress.

I sit down on the floor and open my purse, pull out a handle of Jose Cuervo I stole from work and take a big gulp.