“Wow. I’m impressed you don’t care what people think. I mean, I’m not sure I could do it,” my friend said, eyebrows raised, jaw on the floor.
I’d just proudly admitted that I was now a Postmates delivery driver. This was a week or so after returning to LA from a brutal, ego shattering three years in Nashville. During which, I lost everything. First my mind. Then my money. My dignity. My house. My pride. I got humbled hardcore, and believe it or not, it was the best thing to ever happen to me. It was what I needed to get on my intended path. (I wrote about it for Vogue.)
“I think my ego died,” I said. “I don’t understand this thing in LA of artists being embarrassed to have jobs. It can be difficult or inconsistent to make money from our work. It’s feast or famine. Why is it such a shameful secret that some of us have to find supplemental income?”
Her face remained twisted like I’d handed her a dirty diaper. “Aren’t you worried you’re going to see someone you know?” She said.
“There are li…
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