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This morning, I stepped outside my apartment on Williamsburg’s busy Metropolitan Avenue to find my worst nightmare come true: my discarded bra, t-shirt, gym shorts, empty CD cases and other bits of garbage I’d carefully placed in a plastic bag were strewn across the grate in front of my building.

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Claudia and I threw out everything we owned this weekend. We threw out 98% of everything.

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Garbage men (and women) have it rough.

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A kid laughs on average 300 times a day. An adult laughs on average….five times a day.

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Something weird is going to happen. My recently single, reliably wonderful friend named “Mansion” is going on a road trip with a (very) old boyfriend. Okay, so her name’s not really “Mansion.” But so what if it was?

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Alanis Morissette tore through the nineties like a bat out of hell. I was either nine or ten when Jagged Little Pill was released and I remember it being played wherever I went, including once in my teacher’s car on a fourth grade field trip.

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Attempting to meet up with your drug dealer is sort of like going to the gym. You wait 45 minutes for a text and then when you get it, you run to the address they listed. When you arrive panting and sweating, your dealer sends you another text that’s like, “Just kidding! I’m on the other side of town!” Four hours later, you’ve ran four miles around your city and finally got what you were looking for.

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“Vow” – the first song off Garbage’s 1995 self-titled debut – came on. When Matt and I first met, we had bonded over our mutual childhood love for Garbage – and how much we (without even a shred of irony) continued to enjoy them. We sang along, loudly, until Matt slammed the volume button and turned to look squarely at me, his face lit up with one of the biggest grins I’d ever seen.