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And why had Deb's last boyfriend dumped her? I dumped him. Maybe you didn't French-kiss him enough. I promise you that wasn't it. Tell me how many times a day you kissed, and I'll say if it was enough. Four hundred. Not enough.

Miranda July

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Miranda July
Age: 50
Born: 1974
Born: February 15
Actor
Artist
Film Actor
Film Director
Musician
Screenwriter
Writer
Barre
Vermont
Miranda J. Grossinger
Four
Boyfriend
Lasts
French
Last
Kiss
Times
Kissing
Tell
Promise
Didn
Hundred
Enough
Wasn
Dumped
Many
Maybe
Kissed

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Thus far, everything I've made has come out of my really feeling it, out of the fire of my life.
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The level of control, that's part of what's so appealing about filmmaking - you have so much control over what the reader, the viewer, is noticing from moment to moment. They can't do that boring boring boring thing as easily.
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If you were wise enough to know that this life would consist mostly of letting go of things you wanted, then why not get good at the letting go, rather than the trying to have?
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I'm not a cinephile. My films don't reference films. I'm more interested in rhythm and feeling.
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What a terrible mistake to let go of something wonderful for something real.
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I don't think I'm more of a screenwriter than I am a fiction writer. I'm more of a reader than a film-watcher, so I imagine that I'm not approaching fiction or films in a particularly cinematic way.
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I had a joint once and I didn't feel right for a whole year
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I don't tally the world, asking, Would this annoy you? Would this annoy you? That's so far removed from where I'm at when I'm in the trenches struggling with how to express things that I don't fully understand myself.
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Would she understand that time had stopped while she was gone.
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… it wasn’t pretend, I wasn’t in a fairytale or a fable. I shut my eyes and absorbed the silent whoomp that always accompanies this revelation. It’s the sound of the real world, gigantic and impossible, replacing the smaller version of reality that I wear like a bonnet, clutched tightly under my chin.
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I nodded, pretending I was relaxed. I watched the sunlight sparkling on the water and practiced mind-body integration for a few seconds by quietly hyperventilating.
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Don't wait to be sure. Move, move, move.
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In my paranoid world every storekeeper thinks I’m stealing, every man thinks I’m a prostitute or a lesbian, every woman thinks I’m a lesbian or arrogant, and every child and animal sees the real me and it is evil.
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I went to the bedroom and lay on the floor, so as not to mess up the covers.
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We come from long lines of people destined never to meet.
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That day I carried the dream around like a full glass of water, moving gracefully so I would not lose any of it.
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She never inquired, but she never recoiled, either. This is a quality that I look for in a person, not recoiling.
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An erratum is a correction inserted into a book after publication. It's a nice thing to collect because you can't go after them, you just come upon them. In 25 years I've only found about 12.
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If there were a map of the solar system, but instead of stars it showed people and their degrees of separation, my star would be the one you had to travel the most light-years from to get to his. You would die getting to him.
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Did you ever really love her? Not really no. But me? Yes. Even though I have no pizzazz?
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