Since I’m pretty much just ripping off The Toast these days: If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would have a funny meeting story designed to cover the truth that you were walking one night and, from across the street, you heard her screaming at some close friends, in disbelief that they had not yet watched Heathers. You had intervened to ensure the struggle didn’t become violent and the two of you really hit it off.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you’d always be the big spoon because you like the feeling of resting your chin on her head.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, she would buy you childrens books for Christmas and you would come to love them though not quite as much as she insisted you should.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would invent a distant, estranged relative who refuses to vaccinate his three children, just to see her scramble to a search engine and try and track these people down to give them a piece of her mind every time there is a pertussis outbreak.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would start to relax more at your inter-generational family get-togethers. You would have a drink and chat with your siblings and cousins while SugarHill played poker with your aunts and uncles, who, strangely, all share her taste in music from the 60s and films from the 50s.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you wouldn’t mind that you had to get rid of all of your media collection and most of your clothes so that you could fit all of her flour-sifting apparatus and bakeware into your apartment. It’s worth it to know she can bake whenever she wants to.

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If SugarHill were your girlfriend, she would take you on a tour of New York landmarks. You’d laugh and say, “I know all of this. I’m a New Yorker; I’ve lived here for 23 years.” She would look at you for a long time before replying, “I am a New Yorker. You moved here with your family when you were 12.” She would not speak to you for two days.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would come to love the way she would bump into you in the hall and yell, “I’m walkin’ here,” not as an intentional impersonation of Dustin Hoffman, but, rather, just having an uncanny similarity.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would tell her she talked in her sleep. When she asked you about what, you would make up to most filthy, hard-core sex talk you can imagine, just to see her turn crimson and leave the room.

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If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would come to understand her once inscrutable typos in texts. You would take it as a sign that you are getting closer; that your hearts were beginning to join.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, she would somehow know when you’d have a terrible day at work, so you’d come home to find her cooking an asparagus soup and queueing up The Vampire Diaries on netflix.

If SugarHill were your girlfriend, you would need to know a lot of synonyms for “bombastic.”

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If SugarHill were your girlfriend, she would make you chicken soup when you got sick. “I’m vegetarian,” you’d protest. “And I’m a fucking doctor,” she’d reply, not moving the spoon from your lips.