Homesick for Another World

by Ottessa Moshfegh

Every year, the kids had to take a big exam that let the state know just how bad I was at doing my job.

He was just like me: anything good made him want to die. That’s a characteristic some smart people have.

If you want something and can’t have it, want something else. Want what you deserve. You’ll probably get it.

I hated my boyfriend but I liked the neighborhood.

Twenty years later, I still felt that the good things, the things I wanted, belonged to somebody else.

I’d had this fantasy that I’d get married and suddenly find a calling beyond the humiliating need to make a living.

the cool breeze, the sound of the traffic through the trees,

He could still be a god on Earth, however, if only he found the right tribe. That would be something—to be worshipped and beloved.

But I feel it is a mistake to look for love in these normal people. They’re too neurotic. They aren’t capable of love, only of comfort and equanimity.”

When I look at you, I see fine loose threads, like a silk cushion that has been rubbed for a hundred years, poor girl.”

He seemed fearless, like he could do anything he wanted to do, even if it was disgusting.

But I never did try very hard to please my mother. In fact, I never tried hard to please anybody at all after that day in the locked room. Now I only try hard to please myself. That is all that matters here. That is the secret thing I found.

This is my last night on Earth, I think to myself. And here I am, toiling over the stove like the woman does all day.