. . . but Miranda July makes me want to take off my shoe and beat her with it until she's bleeding and screaming for mercy. I mean, just look at that picture—almost every time she's photographed, July pulls out her scared, vulnerable, protect-me face. Look—she does it here, here and here! Boo!
Women like her make me insane: "I'm just a widdle girl who never eats an entire meal and I'm a-scared of nightmares and clowns and boo boos." Wah!
You're in your thirties, bitch. Deal.
Her pretentious, cloying, stab-me-in-the-eye films are triumphs of cinematic torture. I tried to get through that dreadful Me and You. . . flick and was dry-heaving within fifteen minutes. It makes perfect sense that she started off as a performance artist! Name one thing that's more annoying than a performance artist?!? You can't, right? A cold sore on prom night is welcome by comparison.
You have my friend Kate to blame for this mini-rant. She called me up yesterday and while we were in the middle of talking shit about nothing, she mentioned out of nowhere, "I hate Miranda July."
I knew there was a reason we were friends.