I pull up my mom’s contact on my phone and try to remember the last time we spoke. I think it was at my cousin’s funeral. He died in a motorcycle accident. We weren’t close, but I went to pay my respects. This was about five years ago. My mom came with her new husband, a used-car salesman with a beer belly named Billy, who I called Beer Belly Billy behind his back. At the funeral, he gave me a gross wet kiss on the cheek and told me I needed to come by the house for a steak dinner—he’d gotten a new grill or something. My mom told me I looked very feminine, which I knew was her backhanded way of commenting on my lesbian lifestyle, of which she obviously does not approve. But homophobia aside, I can’t blame her for hating me. I abandoned her right after my dad abandoned her. But I had to get out of that house. It was too depressing. I was sixteen and didn’t want to have to listen to my mom wailing and screaming 24/7. Plus, she had my sister, Debi, the golden child, who couldn’t make the funeral because she was busy making lots of money in San Francisco. I told my mom and Beer Belly Billy it was good to see them, and I would be in touch soon about the steak dinner. We all knew that was a lie.

Hi mom. I hope you’re doing well. Random question: I was wondering if you happen to remember my birth time. I’m getting an astrology reading. Very woo woo, I know. :)

As I wait for her to respond, I consider getting a dog. I’ve always wanted a tiny white fluffy dog I could put in my purse. But getting a dog also feels like giving up.

EMILY.

Thanks to Jessica and her boyfriend and BuzzFeed, I can pay next month’s rent. And maybe a little of the rent I owe, not that Marta asked for it. But she always could. I must be prepared.

Lydia is looking slim and so am I. I pick her up and cradle her in my arms and look into the mirror I have propped against the wall across from my bed. I remember telling that wide-eyed Libra about my “exceptionally delicate vagina” and laugh until Lydia jumps from my arms like she is afraid of me. She often seems afraid of me.

I haven’t been able to come up with a great meme. I post something half-ass, an image of Natalie Portman from The Professional, holding a gun, and the text: “TFW it’s been 4 years and your Libra friend still hasn’t finished her story.” Librans have a lot of trouble getting to the point.

I pick up my iPhone. On Instagram, I have a DM from BreakofDawn. I was born 7/31/71, Riverside, CA, 9:03 pm.