I love:

Being a New Yorker.
Having grown up as a 'New Yorker' by association, living in the burbs but always knowing this as "The City" (and for some time genuinely believing that everyone in the world referred to it as such), I have always felt strong ties to this place. I had a pretty thorough grasp on the culture, the neighborhoods, and certainly the mentality. I understood Billy Joel's subtle and near-constant lyrical allusions. But having officially resided here for a full year, having met with extreme failure and extreme success, having a much more thorough facility with the subway lines than I do with my multiplication tables, having slept under the starless sky night after night and listened to the M86 bus outside my window reassure me that even the Upper West Side does not sleep, having had multiple jobs and perfect kisses and missed connections and sleepless nights of both the intentional and unintentional variety and major hangovers and 5 mile runs and head colds and revelations all on this very island, I can finally call myself a New Yorker without a pang of insincerity.

Extra Innings.
Okay, I love baseball in general, and particularly a close game. But something happens about half way through inning 11, a sort of "we're all in this together" vibe similar to getting stuck in an elevator or a massive power outage. This is happening, and we're locked in it, and it will be over eventually, so instead of staring at the clock and wallowing in misery, let's embrace it completely. Let's relish the fact that this is a unique circumstance. And the ending, whatever it may be, is generally exciting.

Let it be known that I have never left a baseball game early, and once watched the Yankees win in the bottom of the 14th, which was, as you can imagine, most gratifying.

And with that, I have to get back to the top of the 13th.