No One Belongs Here More Than You

by Miranda July

These friends think I’m a drag. I fantasize about starting over and eliminating the film of dragginess that hangs over me. I think I have a handle on it now; there are three main things that make me a drag: I never return phone calls. I am falsely modest. I have a disproportionate amount of guilt about these two things, which makes me unpleasant to be around.

It wouldn’t be so hard to return calls and be more genuinely modest, but it’s too late for these friends. They wouldn’t be able to see that I’m not a drag anymore. I need clean new people who associate me with fun. This is my number two problem: I am never satisfied with what I have. It goes hand in hand with my number one problem: rushing. Maybe they aren’t so much hand in hand as two hands of the same beast. Maybe they are my hands; I am the beast.

This person mourns the fact that she has ruined her one chance to be loved by everyone; as this person climbs into bed, the weight of this tragedy seems to bear down upon this person’s chest. And it is a comforting weight, almost human in heft. This person sighs. This person’s eyes begin to close, this person sleeps.

It is terrible to have to ask for anything ever. We wish we were something that needed nothing, like paint. But even paint needs repainting.

I was never good at jumping in, letting go of one element and embracing another. I could stand there all day, letting the other kids go in front of me forever.

I hated my job, but I liked that I could do it.

What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real.

It’s not one thing in particular, it’s just the sensation of being adrift. As if the boat became unmoored two days ago and I am now on a voyage. I’m trying to notice everything, like a tourist would, even though it’s all familiar.