I love going to match.com when I’m bored, typing in my hometown’s zip code and the age range of my peer group and trying to see if I find anyone I know. Inevitably, I do and I gleefully revel in the fact that they’re posting personal ads. Then I point and laugh at their grammatical errors. Then I cry for hours, curled up in a fetal position at the bottom of my shower because I live a sad, sad life.