The following is to be read upon my death — and also, I hope, well before.
As the year rounds out, I’m realizing the lengths I go to just so I can avoid being caught out unawares.
For the second time as a gig economy worker, I have been notified that I am now a member of a class action lawsuit.
Or, “how to divide rent costs among six roommates living in differently sized rooms.”
I owe business tax and late payment fees for my work as a bike messenger.
I was sitting at a café in downtown Berkeley when I found out that one of my favorite bookstores was closing. What’s odd is that my mother — 2,800 miles away in upstate New York — was the one to give me the news.