Eight years ago today I was fresh off the plane from Chicago, a wide-eyed provincial turnip with a single suitcase at my side, wondering what on earth I was thinking and what in the world would become of me in such a town. I had dreamed of living in New York for as long as I can remember, for so long that it seemed like the sort of dream that could never possibly come true, because I wanted it too badly. Like wanting to marry George Clooney, you know? Unpossible! And yet not, obviously, and screw you, George Clooney. I managed it because I am, let's remember, a Capricorn. And us goats (screw you, grammaticians), we take our own sweet time to reach those mighty, mighty heights, which for me is four whole stories above the streets of the city that I call home.