I have a complicated relationship to writer, performer, and filmmaker Miranda July. I like her, and that’s complicated. July and I both started producing work around the same time out of the same scene. I witnessed early film projects and performances in the clubs where she was cutting her teeth, and remember when her video chain letters were first making the rounds. Her socially surreal treatments and obsessively idiosyncratic storylines repeatedly cast characters in situations where they pine for new lives and means for human interaction. Out of this July grew into a success. One is amazed by how July’s voice seems to translate into every media she attempts. She makes a movie and wins Camera d’Or at Cannes. Her work has been featured in the last two Whitney Biennials, and her writing ends up in the Paris Review and the New Yorker. She makes it look easy. Then there’s the fact that she and I were born on the same day in the same year… and that her parents taught at the same school that I am now attending for my masters degree. You see, it’s complicated. That’s why I want to hate Miranda July, to think she’s clever, but overrated. Jealousy.