His final complaint felt small compared to the others, and I wasn’t so much “cashing checks” as counting coins, but I had to admit he was right. I had processed my grief and trauma publicly, and even though the real reason I wrote it all down was to remember it, and them, in a way that ink and paper only can, I had indeed made a small amount of money from it. If Andy wanted to cash in on some infamy, deluded or not, I’d be a hypocrite to disagree.
