Not All Shabby Is Chic, Just Like

I Can Say With A Solid Degree Of Authority That I Am A Selfish Person. I Spontaneously Forget The Names Of More People Than Not, Unless I Want To Make Out With Them. I Will Take The Last Square Of Toilet Paper Off The Roll Without Thinking Twice. I Tip Taxi Drivers So Poorly I'm Amazed None Of Them Have Run Over My Foot While Speeding Off.

Normally, I Am A Vocal Advocate For 'looking Both Ways' And 'knowing The Size Of One's Own Body.' But Working, Socialising And Simply Running Errands In Manhattan, Means I Am Bound To Break My Own Rules On Occasion.

I Don't Understand How You Can Be A Decent Writer And Not Know People.

The Children Were Overwhelmingly Morbid. Not A Single Adult Asked Me Where Butterflies Go When They Die, But This Question Was More Popular Than Pixie Sticks With The Under-four-foot Set. I Cursed Parents For Not Preparing Their Children. When I Was Five, My Mother And Sister Sat Me Up On The Kitchen Counter And Explained The Facts Of Life: The Easter Bunny Didn't Exist, Elijah Was God's Invisible Friend, With Any Luck Nana Would Die Soon, And If I Ever Saw A Unicorn, I Should Kill It Or Catch It For Cash. I Turned Out Okay.

I Have Come To Understand Myself As More Of A New York Writer, Or More Of A Woman Writer, But I Don't Feel Like That While I'm Writing. But I Think That Most New Yorkers Would Object To Calling Me A New Yorker. I Didn't Grow Up Here.