Harlem at heart.

My clearest childhood memory is that Brandon Tartikoff died the same night as Princess Di. Or was it that Jim Henson died the same night as Sammy Davis, Jr. I just remember going mmm, mmm, mmm both times, and feeling the loss. Love a good obit.

I love unavailability in a man and can't reconcile growing up with an absent dad.

It's true that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, and that the thought of chocolate chip cookies makes me forget whatever it was I was just saying.

I wish I had the clarity of rage in my daily aloofness.

Elizabeth Taylor. I was watching her in a movie the other day, and was ashamed that I forgot about her. Phenom. I want to be the Elizabeth Taylor of writers.

I've never forgiven the parent who returned the Teddy Rupskin I left after a sleepover at her house 10 years later with his eye displaced. It's a slow teapot boil of loathing every time she speaks to me.

I absolutely loathe the term "piggyback" and that its users never notice that no one has ever said, "Great job piggybacking back there, today. Keep it up!" (Hint: It's always enough, and sometimes a splendor, to "second", "echo" or "extend" that which has been said than to frame a spot on speaker as an un-prized hog you wish to ride.)

It's been hard to get over the lack of left-handed desks in 80s and 90s classrooms.

The most satisfying description I have heard of myself is that I am the perfect mix of irreverence, debauchery and sarcasm.

I thought James Marsden was from the Power Rangers. I still swear to that. And that for some reason everyone but me was mind-erased from the truth.

Line dances make me feel like the apocalypse is among us.

Craig Melvin is supposed to be eye candy but the network keeps throwing his wife on surprise Today Show segments. There go the morning jollies.

These Klondike ads have me wondering just how depraved Americans' palettes are.

On the inside, I generally feel like a Pink Lady or The Best Dancer at St. Bernadette's.

I have watched 12 Years A Slave at least 12 times to work out my anger at racism. Also because Chiwetel singing spirituals is kind of extremely hot.

Not being a Black woman who can sing makes me feel smote. But it doesn't stop my shower studio game.

I'd love to be a kept woman but I can't kept my mouth shut. I'm relentlessly toxic to male privilege.

I really want to tell my neighbor that if he can't afford air conditioning, he can't afford to broil steaks in the summer. Oh, a muggy brownstone hallway.

I wish as many people who hate being oppressed also hated oppression.

It's flattering that every time I mention that I want to turkey baste my favorite artistic musician, people are appalled. It means my pipe dream has potential.

Charles Pan Fried is the best fried chicken in NYC.