There is a Miranda July story in this week's New Yorker. I was going to link it, but the story is not online. It's charming and, at times, really good. There are echoes of her film in here along with slight echoes of Eggers (don't you think?). Apparently, she has a book of short stories coming out in the spring, No One Here Belongs Here More Than You.
I had never met her, but I was glad that we were using her. We practiced a loose, sporadic form of class warfare that sanctioned every kind of thievery. There was no person, no business, no library, hospital, or park that had not stolen from us, be it psychically or historically, we'd concluded, and thus we were forever trying to regain what was ours.
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