The Rest of Us Just Live Here

by Patrick Ness

My sister always does this. She thinks she’s stupid. She’s so, so not.

some man moisturizer

“What’s important is that I know how much you worry about shit. And what’s also important is that I know a big part of that worry is that, no matter what group of friends you’re in, no matter how long you’ve known them, you always assume you’re the least-wanted person there. The one everyone else could do without.”

Everyone knows the indie kids don’t use the internet—have you noticed? They never do, it’s weird, like it never occurs to them, like it’s still 1985

“The mistake of every adult, though, is to think darkness and hardship aren’t important to young people because we’ll grow out of it. Who cares if we will? Life is happening to us now, just like it’s happening to you.”

“Don’t you? Doesn’t a part of you think you’re making a big deal out of not very much? That if you were somehow not so weak, you could be happy and free just like everyone else?”

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

I have a flash of terror that this would be a great opportunity to blow a whole lot of people up again. If there are any gas mains running below the school, that is—

“I don’t want to be an indie kid, Mike. I should be one. I’m gay. I’m part God. Jared isn’t even my first name–”

“I don’t think this was supposed to happen,” the indie kid says, amazed. “I think I was supposed to die.”