Quentin Tarantino is here, star of all my sexual nightmares.

To say I’m an overrated troll, when you have never even seen me guard a bridge, is patently unfair.

I want to go to there.

The same ten minutes that magazines urge me to use for sit-ups and triceps dips, I used for sobbing.

Sometimes you want to have a very productive Saturday to feel that you are in control of your life, which of course you are not.

‘How do you juggle it all?’ people constantly ask me, with an accusatory look in their eyes. ‘You’re screwing it all up, aren’t you?’ their eyes say. My standard answer is that I have the same struggle as any working parent but with the good fortune to be working at my dream job. Or sometimes I just hand them a juicy red apple I’ve poisoned in my working-mother witch cauldron and fly away.

I think part of picking where you live in New York is accepting who you are. Really looking at yourself and going, 'Yeah, I'm not cool enough for the West Village.'