The feeling of despair that floods your conscience after invariably being asked by a co-worker about a "totally amazing" article that you had skipped over in the New Yorker a month ago--after a moment of hesitation--and willnever, ever have another opportunity to read. Ever.
Kevin: Hey, did you read that article by Ken Auletta in last month's New Yorker about the Indian newspapers?
You: Crap. No, I sort of got busy and, ... (trailing off)
Kevin: (wistfully) Oh. My. God. It was seriously the best thing I've read in like, months. It was actually the best thing I've read in probably a year. Five years even.
You: Thanks for the hearty helping of New Yorkeregret.
Foreigners and people from the west coast love them, but people from states bordering New York hate them because they bring their abhorrent driving to our peaceful states.
A person that is from new york, but sounds like a man who born with a Canadian father and/or Midwestern Mother. You will also find them on the streets of Manhattan, and Texas where you will also find a 6'4" man who wears a New York Yankee hat and has Mutton Chops and streams on twitch once every week.
"Yes I am from New York, I am New Yorker, what's it to ya?"