The one thing that terrifies me the most about moving to America is the diametrical opposition between the people who have their shit worked out (who are the people you see on TV, and on the news, and in front of microphones up and down the country) and the people who don’t (who you never, ever hear about). Even being unsure is a solid identity. Maybe it’s the “pursuit” part about Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness™, but there’s this weird earnestness and sure-headedness even with the people who claim to be unsure. I wrote a one-thousand-word blog post last night and then deleted it in the morning because a lot of the things I was certain about in an exhausted stupor lost their conviction. I admire the people who wear their neuroticism on their sleeve, who boast about being modest, who can easily summarise who they are in bullet-point lists, but I don’t understand them. Knowing who the hell I am and what the hell I believe is something I don’t think I’ll have really worked out for another ten years or so. People are strange. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.