The Rest of Us Just Live Here

by Patrick Ness

We live in a suburb of a suburb of a suburb of a suburb of a city that takes about an hour to get to.

The rest of us just have to live here, hovering around the edges, left out of it all, for the most part.

Jared’s crazy is way crazier than mine, though I don’t think his makes him lie awake at night in bed, thinking it’d be easier if he was— You know. And if you don’t know, you don’t want to. “There’s a mountain lion out there,” Jared says, looking out his window. I sigh. “There’s always a mountain lion out there.”

You may not like politicians much—I don’t—but she’s good at her job. I can’t remember a single one of the issues from her speech, only the vague sense that she really cared about them. Which she once told me is the perfect result. If you’re too specific, people will purposely mishear you so they can be outraged about whatever thing that usually outrages them. You want to get them on your side emotionally, apparently, where they ask fewer questions. They want us a bit dumb and a bit afraid. Which for the most part, I think we are.

A feeling is pride in your sister. A feeling is fear at the concert that makes you act. A feeling is embarrassment or shame. A feeling may or may not be true, but you still feel it.” “And anxiety is a tumor on your feelings?” “Feelings don’t try to kill you, even the painful ones. Anxiety is a feeling grown too large. A feeling grown aggressive and dangerous. You’re responsible for its consequences, you’re responsible for treating it. But Michael, you’re not responsible for causing it. You’re not morally at fault for it.

I hate myself, Dr. Luther.” “But not so much that you didn’t come asking for help.”