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Bettering Myself
Short story from the April, 2013 Paris Review.
My classroom was on the first floor, next to the nuns’ lounge. I used their bathroom to puke in the mornings. One nun always dusted the toilet seat with talcum powder. Another nun plugged the sink and filled it ...
My classroom was on the first floor, next to the nuns’ lounge. I used their bathroom to puke in the mornings. One nun always dusted the toilet seat with talcum powder. Another nun plugged the sink and filled it ...
8 pages, ebook
First published April 1, 2013
44 people are currently reading
4242 people want to read
About the author
Ottessa Moshfegh
41 books24.3k followersOttessa Moshfegh is a fiction writer from New England. Eileen, her first novel, was shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the Man Booker Prize, and won the PEN/Hemingway Award for debut fiction. My Year of Rest and Relaxation and Death in Her Hands, her second and third novels, were New York Times bestsellers. She is also the author of the short story collection Homesick for Another World and a novella, McGlue. She lives in Southern California.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 78 reviews
May 24, 2016
So what happens when you go through Ottessa Moshfegh's works? You find more short stories, and you keep on reading...
This one is a bit darker than the others I've read, about an alcoholic teacher in a hopeless, futureless situation. Great character development once again.
I'm starting to think that Moshfegh is like literary crack.
Read it online here.
Read this for our May Short Story Month Marathon, a personal challenge during which Alex and I will be going through our short story collection in this last week of May. I'm adding a little twist to it by reading books by authors I haven't read from before.
This one is a bit darker than the others I've read, about an alcoholic teacher in a hopeless, futureless situation. Great character development once again.
I'm starting to think that Moshfegh is like literary crack.
Read it online here.
Read this for our May Short Story Month Marathon, a personal challenge during which Alex and I will be going through our short story collection in this last week of May. I'm adding a little twist to it by reading books by authors I haven't read from before.
March 21, 2022
This short story from the ‘one-of-a- kind’ Ottessa Moshfegh ….
“Bettering Myself” was a recipient of the Plimpton Prize for Fiction that ‘The Paris Review’ gives each year (a $10,000 award) …
The narrator of ‘Bettering Myself” was a problem drinker and Catholic school math teacher who said to her students, “Most people have had anal sex. Don’t look so surprised”.
There’s humor in this story but it’s also very sad.
“Every year the kids had to take a big exam that let the state know just how badly I was doing my job. The exams were designed for failure. Even I couldn’t pass them”.
There was no way Miss Mooney’s students could pass that big exam. She passed out the tests, had them break the seals, She showed them how to fill in the bubbles properly with the right pencils. She then told them to try their best. Then she took the test home and switched all their answers.
“No way those dummies would cost me my job”.
Miss Mooney, was thirty years old - had an ex-husband, a boyfriend who was still in college who provided alcohol and cocaine.
She often slept in her classroom in an old sleeping bag —
Her parents sent her money.
Getting better looked a little like this:
“I dried out for a few days, did some calisthenics on the floor of my apartment. I borrowed a vacuum from my neighbor, a middle aged gay with long, acne-scarred dimples, who eyed me like a worried dog. I took a walk to Broadway and spent some of my money on new clothes, high-heeled shoes, silk panties. I had my make up done and bought whatever products they suggested. I had my haircut. I got my nails polished. I took myself out to lunch. I ate a salad for the first time in years. I went to the movies. I called my mom. I’ve never felt better, I said. I’m having a great summer. A great summer holiday. I tidied up my apartment. I filled a vase with bright flowers. Anything good I could think of to do, I did. I was filled with hope. I bought new sheets and towels. I put on some music.
‘Bailar’, I said to myself. Look, I’m speaking Spanish. My mind is fixing itself, I thought. Everything is going to be okay”.
This compelling short story is everything one comes to expect from Ottessa Moshfegh….(with flawed sad characters) …
Even when the story ends…
we can’t fully trust that anything has really been resolved.
People either like Ottessa Moshfegh or they don’t.
I do.
“Bettering Myself” was a recipient of the Plimpton Prize for Fiction that ‘The Paris Review’ gives each year (a $10,000 award) …
The narrator of ‘Bettering Myself” was a problem drinker and Catholic school math teacher who said to her students, “Most people have had anal sex. Don’t look so surprised”.
There’s humor in this story but it’s also very sad.
“Every year the kids had to take a big exam that let the state know just how badly I was doing my job. The exams were designed for failure. Even I couldn’t pass them”.
There was no way Miss Mooney’s students could pass that big exam. She passed out the tests, had them break the seals, She showed them how to fill in the bubbles properly with the right pencils. She then told them to try their best. Then she took the test home and switched all their answers.
“No way those dummies would cost me my job”.
Miss Mooney, was thirty years old - had an ex-husband, a boyfriend who was still in college who provided alcohol and cocaine.
She often slept in her classroom in an old sleeping bag —
Her parents sent her money.
Getting better looked a little like this:
“I dried out for a few days, did some calisthenics on the floor of my apartment. I borrowed a vacuum from my neighbor, a middle aged gay with long, acne-scarred dimples, who eyed me like a worried dog. I took a walk to Broadway and spent some of my money on new clothes, high-heeled shoes, silk panties. I had my make up done and bought whatever products they suggested. I had my haircut. I got my nails polished. I took myself out to lunch. I ate a salad for the first time in years. I went to the movies. I called my mom. I’ve never felt better, I said. I’m having a great summer. A great summer holiday. I tidied up my apartment. I filled a vase with bright flowers. Anything good I could think of to do, I did. I was filled with hope. I bought new sheets and towels. I put on some music.
‘Bailar’, I said to myself. Look, I’m speaking Spanish. My mind is fixing itself, I thought. Everything is going to be okay”.
This compelling short story is everything one comes to expect from Ottessa Moshfegh….(with flawed sad characters) …
Even when the story ends…
we can’t fully trust that anything has really been resolved.
People either like Ottessa Moshfegh or they don’t.
I do.
May 11, 2021
Considered as a representative of contemporary gothic genre thanks to her dark and disturbing account of ordinary people, Moshfegh yet again creates a heavy and gloomy atmosphere with Bettering Myself. I just love the way she creates female anti-heroes and this feels like an extension to her novel My Year of Rest and Relaxation; the protagonists have a lot in common including the Egyptian bodega just around the corner. We have an incompetent teacher filled with frustration and lack of enthusiasm for life. Moshfegh’s characters are in it for all; they dull their senses with drugs, alcohol and bitter cynicism to escape the pain of life. Author’s unusual style, choice of words and use of language create an otherworldly fiction that I adore. I just love the way she fiddles with the language, building abhorring images with the words that appall us. Everything we push down hard into our subconscious comes up with simplest of expressions formed using brutal honesty. Great work contemporary fiction!
Read
December 4, 2019 Oh, okay, there were a few fine times. One day I went to the park and watched a squirrel run up a tree. A cloud flew around in the sky. I sat down on a patch of dry yellow grass and let the sun warm my back. I may have even tried to do a crossword puzzle. Once, I found a twenty-dollar bill in a pair of old jeans. I drank a glass of water. It got to be summer. The days got intolerably long. School let out. The boyfriend graduated and moved back to Tennessee. I bought an air conditioner and paid a kid to carry it down the street and up the stairs to my apartment.
January 23, 2022
I woke up in a cold sweat and realized I needed to reread this story right away or I would die
November 21, 2019
One of my favourite contemporary writers. Love discovering Ottessa Moshfegh’s older short stories after devouring her two novels and one novella.
Read
March 12, 2024Mini “my year of rest and relaxation”
March 8, 2019
https://rogueliterarysociety.com/f/be...
I don’t subscribe to The Paris Review so I miss out on award notifications such as the Plimpton Prize for Fiction. Ottessa Moshfegh’s Bettering Myself happens to be one of those winners. Loren Stein in her Introduction links Ottessa Moshfegh’s name to William Faulkner’s which is a bit of a stretch as there really isn’t any “unnameable quality” in Bettering Myself to make Moshfegh “sound unique” enough to gain entry into that same literary fraternity. But we’re all hungry for new and authentic voices, creative writing that will knock our socks off, as the infamous teacher and editor Gordon Lish has religiously preached and proclaimed.
I suppose Bettering Myself did have a bit of Holden Caulfield in there. I somewhat caught that tone. A lot of other writers have tooled that famous voice as well, even the great Gordon Lish mentioned above won an award for sounding exactly like J.D. Salinger. So much so the officials all thought he was the real deal. When I am lucky enough to read something uniquely original, and good, I am always struck with the need to take notes, to highlight a sentence, phrase, or even a whole paragraph. Not so with this piece of drivel. It was interesting to see the highlighted Kindle “popular” notes made by other readers. Nothing worth quoting here. But an example of her writing that I did find will make do:
...The last time I’d been in that church was for some Catholic holiday. I’d sat in the back and done my best to kneel, cross myself, move my mouth at the Latin sayings, and so forth. I had no idea what any of it meant, but it had some effect on me. It was cold in there. My nipples stood on end, my hands were swollen, my back hurt…
Not exactly an example of fine writing, but perhaps a sisterly found-relationship to the Holden Caulfield resemblance I had previously conjured. Or perhaps consider that Ottessa Moshfegh’s best scene in the story was in the fancy restaurant with the main character and her ex-husband. She was negotiating a new deal with him. The ex-husband in the story was insisting she quit calling him and leaving messages. We learn he has a new love interest. Things are going well for him. He offers to pay her to stop. She asks how much, he tells her, and she takes the deal. I perceived her as being blatantly braggadocious as she remained the one on top in their relationship. For me it was just another piece in the pattern developing in the story. I began to ask myself why, and this came up for show:
...I had a boyfriend who was still in college. He wore the same clothes every single day: a blue pair of Dickies and a paper-thin button down. The shirt was western style with opalescent snaps. You could see his chest hair and nipples through it. I didn’t say anything. He had a nice face, but fat ankles and a soft, wrinkly neck. “Lots of girls at school want to date me,” he said often.
The above paragraph says a lot about her character. Is it possible Ottessa Moshfegh also has issues with men? I do. She is not unique. As an interesting side note Gordon Lish the teacher would never allow Moshfegh the writer make herself appear better than, or above, any other in a story. He doesn’t go for that wan behavior. It is bad writing.
In August of 2018 Ottessa Moshfegh published an essay in Granta Magazine 144 titled, ‘I remember thinking his waning vitality could be used to my advantage’. She claims the essay was written in order to tell a story in which I wasn’t the victim. She slyly manages to make her topic center on male privilege and predatory behavior and of course in 2018 this essay would instantly go to the forefront of any reader’s mind. Misogyny and sexual aggression go hand in hand in stories like this. And I believe her story. Well, most of it. Rupert Dicks is certainly not a flattering false name given to her main and lecherous true character, and actually the handle is quite insulting given the situation Ottessa Moshfegh had created by and for herself almost two decades ago. I know the real-life Rupert Dicks she writes of, and if the reader truly considers what she says, Dicks instead was the victim. She writes,
...He wasn’t a large man, but his body vibrated with the demanding neediness of a man who had once been very beautiful and powerful...At 65, he now had age spots on his face, jowls, thin white hair edging out from under his hat. I remember thinking his waning vitality could be used to my advantage. If I succeeded in reflecting his great masculine strength, then he’d want me around, might take more of an interest in my work, tell me more, explain more, enlighten me more…
Ottessa Moshfegh told Rupert Dicks she was only seventeen at the time of their first meeting. If she had been honest with him going forward throughout their personal relationship there would have been absolutely nothing untoward in his behavior. Of course he may, or may not, have given her the help she felt she needed without a bit of mutual flirtation. There have been many young women Rupert Dicks has helped. Not all ended up in bed with him. Some even asked why not. Moshfegh’s essay does nothing to necessitate respect or admiration for her. In fact Moshfegh makes me remember her name so I can be sure to avoid her treacherous person. She ends her essay with:
...We are all unruly and selfish sometimes. I am, you are, he is, she is. Like Dicks, I have little patience for small talk or politesse. One has to be somewhat badly behaved to write above the fray in a society most comfortable with palatable mediocrity. One has to be willing to upset the apple cart...That’s the kind of writer I have always wanted to be, a troublemaker.
So Ottessa Moshfegh is a troublemaker. Big deal. I see a wannabe. Not even a palatable mediocrity. It is of no lasting matter the coveted awards that might come her way, or what the pretentious literati has to say in deference to her. Besides her poorly labeled Rupert Dicks, she gives good sex a bad name.
I don’t subscribe to The Paris Review so I miss out on award notifications such as the Plimpton Prize for Fiction. Ottessa Moshfegh’s Bettering Myself happens to be one of those winners. Loren Stein in her Introduction links Ottessa Moshfegh’s name to William Faulkner’s which is a bit of a stretch as there really isn’t any “unnameable quality” in Bettering Myself to make Moshfegh “sound unique” enough to gain entry into that same literary fraternity. But we’re all hungry for new and authentic voices, creative writing that will knock our socks off, as the infamous teacher and editor Gordon Lish has religiously preached and proclaimed.
I suppose Bettering Myself did have a bit of Holden Caulfield in there. I somewhat caught that tone. A lot of other writers have tooled that famous voice as well, even the great Gordon Lish mentioned above won an award for sounding exactly like J.D. Salinger. So much so the officials all thought he was the real deal. When I am lucky enough to read something uniquely original, and good, I am always struck with the need to take notes, to highlight a sentence, phrase, or even a whole paragraph. Not so with this piece of drivel. It was interesting to see the highlighted Kindle “popular” notes made by other readers. Nothing worth quoting here. But an example of her writing that I did find will make do:
...The last time I’d been in that church was for some Catholic holiday. I’d sat in the back and done my best to kneel, cross myself, move my mouth at the Latin sayings, and so forth. I had no idea what any of it meant, but it had some effect on me. It was cold in there. My nipples stood on end, my hands were swollen, my back hurt…
Not exactly an example of fine writing, but perhaps a sisterly found-relationship to the Holden Caulfield resemblance I had previously conjured. Or perhaps consider that Ottessa Moshfegh’s best scene in the story was in the fancy restaurant with the main character and her ex-husband. She was negotiating a new deal with him. The ex-husband in the story was insisting she quit calling him and leaving messages. We learn he has a new love interest. Things are going well for him. He offers to pay her to stop. She asks how much, he tells her, and she takes the deal. I perceived her as being blatantly braggadocious as she remained the one on top in their relationship. For me it was just another piece in the pattern developing in the story. I began to ask myself why, and this came up for show:
...I had a boyfriend who was still in college. He wore the same clothes every single day: a blue pair of Dickies and a paper-thin button down. The shirt was western style with opalescent snaps. You could see his chest hair and nipples through it. I didn’t say anything. He had a nice face, but fat ankles and a soft, wrinkly neck. “Lots of girls at school want to date me,” he said often.
The above paragraph says a lot about her character. Is it possible Ottessa Moshfegh also has issues with men? I do. She is not unique. As an interesting side note Gordon Lish the teacher would never allow Moshfegh the writer make herself appear better than, or above, any other in a story. He doesn’t go for that wan behavior. It is bad writing.
In August of 2018 Ottessa Moshfegh published an essay in Granta Magazine 144 titled, ‘I remember thinking his waning vitality could be used to my advantage’. She claims the essay was written in order to tell a story in which I wasn’t the victim. She slyly manages to make her topic center on male privilege and predatory behavior and of course in 2018 this essay would instantly go to the forefront of any reader’s mind. Misogyny and sexual aggression go hand in hand in stories like this. And I believe her story. Well, most of it. Rupert Dicks is certainly not a flattering false name given to her main and lecherous true character, and actually the handle is quite insulting given the situation Ottessa Moshfegh had created by and for herself almost two decades ago. I know the real-life Rupert Dicks she writes of, and if the reader truly considers what she says, Dicks instead was the victim. She writes,
...He wasn’t a large man, but his body vibrated with the demanding neediness of a man who had once been very beautiful and powerful...At 65, he now had age spots on his face, jowls, thin white hair edging out from under his hat. I remember thinking his waning vitality could be used to my advantage. If I succeeded in reflecting his great masculine strength, then he’d want me around, might take more of an interest in my work, tell me more, explain more, enlighten me more…
Ottessa Moshfegh told Rupert Dicks she was only seventeen at the time of their first meeting. If she had been honest with him going forward throughout their personal relationship there would have been absolutely nothing untoward in his behavior. Of course he may, or may not, have given her the help she felt she needed without a bit of mutual flirtation. There have been many young women Rupert Dicks has helped. Not all ended up in bed with him. Some even asked why not. Moshfegh’s essay does nothing to necessitate respect or admiration for her. In fact Moshfegh makes me remember her name so I can be sure to avoid her treacherous person. She ends her essay with:
...We are all unruly and selfish sometimes. I am, you are, he is, she is. Like Dicks, I have little patience for small talk or politesse. One has to be somewhat badly behaved to write above the fray in a society most comfortable with palatable mediocrity. One has to be willing to upset the apple cart...That’s the kind of writer I have always wanted to be, a troublemaker.
So Ottessa Moshfegh is a troublemaker. Big deal. I see a wannabe. Not even a palatable mediocrity. It is of no lasting matter the coveted awards that might come her way, or what the pretentious literati has to say in deference to her. Besides her poorly labeled Rupert Dicks, she gives good sex a bad name.
July 14, 2022
“This felt like a great occasion. I can’t explain it. I felt immediately endowed with great power. I plunked my straw in and sucked. It was good. It was the best thing I’d ever tasted. I thought of ordering another one, for when I’d finished that one. But that would be exploitive, I thought. Better let this one have its day. Okay, I thought. One at a time. One Diet Coke at a time.”
Wow. What a banger of a short story. Having fallen in love with the deeply talented Ottessa Moshfegh’s writing this year (I know, I know…I have been living under a ROCK 🪨 because WOW) and have been basically *grabby hands* inhaling every Moshfegh work I can get my ravenous little paws on. Not surprised this deliciously paced short story was selected as the kick off story for her short story collection, Homesick For Another World: Stories. Moshfegh utilizes her signature hyper interior first person POV narration very much in the vein of Death in Her Hands and My Year of Rest and Relaxation, but this time infused with an intricately balanced level of levity and dark comedic humor that had my face consistently oscillating between giggles and smirks.
It’s incredible to see the way Moshfegh organizes her short stories and balances tension and release as masterfully in a fraction of the pages she does in her novels and yet still illicit a packed punch of a short story that immerses you into its world completely you lose track of the fact that you’re reading words on a piece of paper. Moshfegh’s incredibly cinematic and visually stimulating writing shines so brightly in this piece, I think it would make a great 80-90 min short indie feature.
Wow. What a banger of a short story. Having fallen in love with the deeply talented Ottessa Moshfegh’s writing this year (I know, I know…I have been living under a ROCK 🪨 because WOW) and have been basically *grabby hands* inhaling every Moshfegh work I can get my ravenous little paws on. Not surprised this deliciously paced short story was selected as the kick off story for her short story collection, Homesick For Another World: Stories. Moshfegh utilizes her signature hyper interior first person POV narration very much in the vein of Death in Her Hands and My Year of Rest and Relaxation, but this time infused with an intricately balanced level of levity and dark comedic humor that had my face consistently oscillating between giggles and smirks.
It’s incredible to see the way Moshfegh organizes her short stories and balances tension and release as masterfully in a fraction of the pages she does in her novels and yet still illicit a packed punch of a short story that immerses you into its world completely you lose track of the fact that you’re reading words on a piece of paper. Moshfegh’s incredibly cinematic and visually stimulating writing shines so brightly in this piece, I think it would make a great 80-90 min short indie feature.
February 18, 2023
moshfegh’s dedication to writing about people who gloriously fail at being any good at all is captivating. the character here is somehow hell bent on both being the absolute worst and preserving the miserable stasis of her wretched existence. when she tries to accomplish the titular act of self improvement or even just attempts to form connections with the people around her, she’s met with a universe that’s just as indifferent and preoccupied with inertia as her.
the final scenes see her operating on the same axis with the same dead end, miserable joke of a job and the same monotonous, penetrating loneliness. but she’s in a bar she dismissed previously. instead of drinking liberally like she has throughout the story, she eats a bowl of pickled onions. there might not have been any forward or vertical motion, but something has shifted. and when bettering yourself can only be nebulous, impossible and brutal, perhaps just a horizontal movement is enough. maybe that’s all any of us ever need.
the final scenes see her operating on the same axis with the same dead end, miserable joke of a job and the same monotonous, penetrating loneliness. but she’s in a bar she dismissed previously. instead of drinking liberally like she has throughout the story, she eats a bowl of pickled onions. there might not have been any forward or vertical motion, but something has shifted. and when bettering yourself can only be nebulous, impossible and brutal, perhaps just a horizontal movement is enough. maybe that’s all any of us ever need.
July 9, 2023
Weird af but i love it
October 18, 2018
An independently wealthy teacher who sleeps between her classes, who substance abuses (alcohol in this case), who traipses back and forth to her local bodega run by Egyptians, her “homely” Jewish friend who lives out of the city. You can see how Moshfegh expanded and polished this story for her latest book My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Unlike the novel which is excellent, this story is very average.
December 1, 2023
this was one of her tamer stories, but i enjoyed it all the same. very very relatable
August 30, 2021
Shockingly excellent writing
Reading Moshfegh for the first time is like downing a glass of water and realizing it's vodka, or taking a trail ride and accidentally entering a rodeo. Bracing. A bit disorienting. But this story woke me up, not gently, and I didn't even realize I've been sleeping. Now I'm left wanting more.
Luckily -- This is the first story in "Homesick For Another World". I enjoyed having it in this easy-access "kindle single" from Electric Literature.
Reading Moshfegh for the first time is like downing a glass of water and realizing it's vodka, or taking a trail ride and accidentally entering a rodeo. Bracing. A bit disorienting. But this story woke me up, not gently, and I didn't even realize I've been sleeping. Now I'm left wanting more.
Luckily -- This is the first story in "Homesick For Another World". I enjoyed having it in this easy-access "kindle single" from Electric Literature.
April 21, 2022
while this is a short story and not a full novel i'm still going to log it, rate it, and review it as i would a full length book. i loved this! it had great pacing, stayed on each scene the perfect amount of time. i've heard that this short story was the grounds for my year of rest and relaxation by the same author so maybe i'll read that in the future! definitely one of my favorite short stories ive read thus far! :)
October 30, 2018
I dont know how to rate this really..Ive been on a review reading binge of all the picks of best books of 2018 here. I ended up going on a review binge of Otessa's books too. Somehow I landed on a review leading to an online excerpt of this particular story. I couldn't stop reading. It was addictive and like a car crash. Miss Mooney is a mess. Entertaining overall..
November 2, 2021
I normally wouldn't count a short story as a fully read piece of work on here, but we had to read this for a class and I found I really enjoyed it. When I went to see what else Ottessa Moshfegh has written I found this listed on here and decided to add it so that I will remember it in the future
January 27, 2022
“I put on some music. “Bailar,” I said to myself. Look, I’m speaking Spanish. My mind is fixing itself, I thought. Everything is going to be okay.”
Read
July 11, 2025“I dipped a finger in my beer and rubbed off my mascara. I looked around at the other women at the bar. Makeup made a girl look so desperate, I thought. People were so dishonest with their clothes and personalities. And then I thought, Who cares? Let them do what they want. It’s me I should worry about.”
June 12, 2025
Around ten p.m. I'd switch to vodka and would pretend to better myself with a book or some kind of music, as though God were checking up on me.
"All good here," I pretended to say. "Just bettering myself, as always."
"All good here," I pretended to say. "Just bettering myself, as always."
September 7, 2022
this feels like what she started with and My Year of Rest and Relaxation ended up being the final draft.
July 2, 2023
“𝒎𝒆𝒏,” she said. “𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒔”
September 6, 2023
Re-reading this short story from Homesick for Another World reminded me why I love Ottessa’s writing. I need to read her other books
February 27, 2023
God I love Ottessa Moshfegh.
Please read this if you haven't — it takes a half hour.
She writes for the GIRLS. The mentally ill GIRLS.
Really scratches the itch.
"I bought all my beer from the bodega on the corner of East Tenth and First Avenue. The Egyptians who worked there were all very handsome and complimentary. They gave me free candy — individually wrapped Twizzlers, Pop Rocks. They dropped them into the paper bag and winked. I’d buy two or three forties and a pack of cigarettes on my way home from school each afternoon and go to bed and watch Married…with Children and Sally Jessy Raphael on my small black-and-white television, drink and smoke and snooze. When it got dark I’d go out again for more forties and, on occasion, food. Around ten p.m. I’d switch to vodka and would pretend to better myself with a book or some kind of music, as though God were checking up on me. “All good here,” I pretended to say. “Just bettering myself, as always.”" <333333333333
Please read this if you haven't — it takes a half hour.
She writes for the GIRLS. The mentally ill GIRLS.
Really scratches the itch.
"I bought all my beer from the bodega on the corner of East Tenth and First Avenue. The Egyptians who worked there were all very handsome and complimentary. They gave me free candy — individually wrapped Twizzlers, Pop Rocks. They dropped them into the paper bag and winked. I’d buy two or three forties and a pack of cigarettes on my way home from school each afternoon and go to bed and watch Married…with Children and Sally Jessy Raphael on my small black-and-white television, drink and smoke and snooze. When it got dark I’d go out again for more forties and, on occasion, food. Around ten p.m. I’d switch to vodka and would pretend to better myself with a book or some kind of music, as though God were checking up on me. “All good here,” I pretended to say. “Just bettering myself, as always.”" <333333333333
February 21, 2023
One of my favorite genres of all time is ordinary people struggling with very ordinary problems. A person stuck in a miserable loop of self harm and self destructive behaviors due to outside factors is something I find extremely relatable, even though the premise of this short story does not seem as relatable at first glance. I adore Moshfegh's atmospheric and bleak writing, she has a talent for portraying ordinary and utterly miserable situations in such a magical way, yet she does it without romanticizing the subject matter.
January 16, 2015
Originally I gave this three stars but mostly because I felt guilty about how I didn't get it.
Alcoholic teacher experiencing breakdown? I got that part. And it was kinda well written. But maybe I just like novels better.
I also feel guilty about counting this as a book on my reading challenge because it is like 5 pages long. But since I missed the target last year I need all the help I can get.
Alcoholic teacher experiencing breakdown? I got that part. And it was kinda well written. But maybe I just like novels better.
I also feel guilty about counting this as a book on my reading challenge because it is like 5 pages long. But since I missed the target last year I need all the help I can get.
December 20, 2021
interesting short story but depressing main character
January 23, 2022
cutesy little ladybug, i mean she’s thriving so can’t complain. her ex husband and hers relationship is funny x
February 6, 2022
literally my favorite short story ever
August 26, 2025
I hope Ottessa Moshfegh has a good therapist. This felt like the germ that My Year of Rest and Relexation evolved from. There are many similarities between the protagonists: the Egyptian bodega, alcoholism, a weird relationship with their ex and a general talent for numbing the pain inside them with total self-destruction. Moshfegh really tries to make you conscious of your body while reading, her fiction is very physical and evokes feelings of disgust, anxiety and depression. She doesn’t shy away from showing the ugliness and horrors of this world (I love her quote, „Earth is evil. Why should fiction pretend it’s not?“). I think her characters can also be compared to the Freudian Id in the way the are driven by lust and listlessness. They yearn for improvement, but are held back by their own primal impulses and desires, and most of all, their inability to leave their comfort zones for betterment.
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