As a New Yorker, I am many things. I am a bodega sandwich. I am a subway rat. I am a milky puddle of viscous substance leaking onto Eighth Avenue. I am a Louboutin. I am a chicharron. I am a mosque between a taxi depot and a wholesale wig shop. I am the lonely fainting goat in the Binghamton Zoo. I am the curious darkness that descends on a daytime street when the sun falls below the skyscrapers. I am a singing waiter belting out today’s specials. I am a sawmill outside Schenectady. I am the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the streets at dawn looking for an angry fix. I am a confident strawberry blonde with an unabashedly leftist platform who refuses to define her sexuality. I’m also me, Andrew Cuomo.