I heart the text, then ask, How was the group project?

And then I am at Subtropical.

I take my normal seat in the corner and get to my readings. I have so many to do—upwards of fifty. I love having so much work queued that I don’t have to think about anything else, like how I’m going to keep up the lies that I work for Elon Musk and am a budding indie starlet.

Doing readings allows my brain to relax. I mostly copy and paste descriptions of placements, thoughtless and soothing work.

Occasionally I take a break to check my texts.

My dad texts me, I enjoyed this Korean movie called Parasite. I’m sure you’ve seen it. I know he’s “canceled” but I’ve also been revisiting Polanski. Knife in the Water holds up. I hadn’t seen it since grad school. It’s also very Freudian.

It tickles me the way my dad calls Roman Polanski “canceled.” I respond, I remember watching Rosemary’s Baby with you when I was 11. Mom was out of town. ;p

That’s kind of a dark movie to show a preteen … I hope you didn’t tell your mom. ;p

I didn’t, I write back.

Then Cinnamon texts. I’ll tell you all about it at Mirror Box today if you’re free. I’ll be there at 4.

I’m there, I say.

I take a big sip of my coffee and look at my readings and wonder if I believe in astrology at all anymore. My fucking Gemini moon, so ideologically chaotic. I’m still attributing most of my decisions to my Scorpio stellium or Gemini moon, so I must believe in astrology somewhat. Or is that just my OCD, like my therapist said? And is my OCD just heightened because of the love feelings triggered by Beau— as love, according to the psychologist on Instagram, catalyzes an OCD response? But isn’t psychology just astrology for the independently wealthy? And Beau was brought to me via his birth chart, via the stars. And Cinnamon is quickly becoming the first friend I’ve ever liked, and we have the same birth chart. So there must be something to it. Maybe I’ll put a hold on my “Astrology Is Bullshit” article.

“You okay?” the hot waiter asks.

“Just exhausted trying to figure out what I actually believe,” I tell him, and he laughs.

“Glass of wine?”

“I’m allergic,” I say without looking up. I focus on the screen, channeling my conceptual indecision into my readings, a concrete task with copy-and-pasteable responses, a salve.

DAWN.