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This was bizarre, in the way you expect Miranda July to be bizarre. It's her trademark. And it was funny, in the way you expect her to be funny. Toss in some poignancy, too.

But it was also 336 pages. God, that's a lot of Miranda July. I kept thinking, oh, it would be so perfect if it ended here, at the end of her fake trip. No? Okay, here, when something major happens at home. No? Okay, here, just here, or even here please, for the love of god, because even though she's bizarre and funny and poignant, I'm exhausted by this peri-menopausal Odyssey she's taken me on. Exhausted by her emotional and erotic journey. I feel like I've been through something, reading this, and I need a deep and long recovery from it.

I also need to stop thinking about the tampon scene, or the one with the elderly woman who sold her the quilt. And all the endless masturbation. Dear god, Miranda July. Really? Yes, she says, in her flat, breathy voice, really. If you don't want to read stuff like that, then you shouldn't have picked this up. That's what you sign up for when you see my name on the cover. So don't complain.

Okay. I won't complain, then.

There were things about this book I loved - I loved that she took a road trip, and then quickly gave up and stayed in a motel and pretended to her husband that she was still driving across the country. That she paid to redecorate her shitty motel room. It was funny, it was bizarre, and - well, her loneliness and secretiveness and trapped-ness was poignant. Her deep need to be free, and completely herself - something you might think should be simple, a given, even, turns out to be something that challenges the structures of society, family and relationship. So that was poignant too.

I just think it could have been more powerful if she took us on a 10km run, rather than a full, freaking marathon.

It's hard to be knocked down when you're on all fours.