“I feel sick,” I say when I get back to Thomas. “I just threw up in the bathroom. I really can’t handle alcohol. I’m going to go home.”

As I head toward the door, Thomas grabs my arm. “Are you serious?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. I shake him off. “I’m allergic to alcohol.”

And then I leave the bar. Outside, the sky is dark and the air is cool. I feel relieved to be alone again. I take out my phone and type my address into Maps. It’s a forty-five-minute walk, which sounds perfect. People always say I’m courting danger walking alone at night in LA, but they watch too much true crime. I’ve been walking alone in LA at night since I was a teenager. Nothing bad has ever happened to me. The city is the least scary at this time, when it isn’t bright and noisy and aggressive, but rather cool and calm and quiet.

I put on Kid A and start walking.

I wake up with a headache. I can’t fucking believe it. One drink and I have a hangover.

I feed Lydia and grab a blue Gatorade from the fridge. I have just one left. And no turkey or crackers. Luckily, I’m not hungry at all because I’m still full from the fries at Subtropical.

I chug the Gatorade and make my way back to my bed, where I put my laptop on my thighs. I consider checking my finances but decide against it. There is no need to look at my bank account directly. Money is coming in, I know this, and I’m being good. I have free weed, as long as I keep up the acting job with Thomas, which also amounts to free acting lessons. The check from BuzzFeed will come in soon. I will surely have more requests for readings.

I check my Gmail. Nothing.

On Instagram, I have just one DM, from someone called BreakofDawn. Hi! I just wanted to let you know I love your account so much! I hope you’re having a fabu day :)

What would be fabu is if she could pay me $250 for a reading.

I heart her response—for business purposes—and reply, Do you want a reading?

Typing bubbles appear immediately. I’d love one!

Great, I write back. It’s $250.

Wow! You must be good. :)

A tiny rage blooms inside me. Why must everyone comment on the price of my readings? People love my account, eat up my memes, then act shocked when they find out I need to make a living. Living ain’t cheap.

I see her typing again.

I’m a little low on cash right now, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.

Ugh.

Let me know, I respond, then add a smiley face—again, for business purposes.

My business is shit.