Out on the town, safe in the crowd.

I remember being 16. I’d just learned to drive, inherited the family hand-me-down Nissan and had just enough money from my job at Dominos Pizza to buy a new CD once or twice a month.

I remember being a child in the backseat of the family van when “You Oughta Know” was a Top 40 hit. I remember the shock of vulgarity that swept through the small space when that line (yeah, you know which one) came across the airwaves. The look passed from my mom to my sister was one of disappointment, repulsion. The look passed from Janine to me was one of youthful determination that said, without a word, “Mom hating this song makes it so much better.”

I remember growing up to Jagged Little Pill. When the CD started to skip, a new version always replaced it. My sister related to the original version of the album with every ounce of her 1990s teenage angsty glory. I was in elementary school at the time, and as my sister and I spent afternoons in our shared room listening to the album from beginning to end, over and over and over again, all I knew was that my sister was the coolest person in the world and I wanted to be just like her. If she liked Alanis Morrisette, so should I. Ten years later, it was my turn to get to know the album for myself.

I remember seeing the ten year anniversary acoustic re-release on the counter of Starbucks my junior year of high school, and immediately slapping a $20 bill down.

I remember driving down Blanding Boulevard, windows down, blaring the brilliant string and piano arrangements that so beautifully juxtaposed (or maybe strengthened?) each song, ten years after they were first released. You can hear in each track that Alanis changed over that decade. I had too. I wasn’t a child anymore. The nuance of “Perfect” hit closer to home than it did at age six, and the simple beauty of “Head Over Feet” gained a sincerity that previously was lost behind a pop sound that was, perhaps, a bit overwrought the first time around.

I remember sitting at my piano and playing “Your House,” the hidden track that was originally an a capella expression of earnest desperation. Ten years later, it turned into my all-time favorite. (These days, I liken it to what people often hype Joni Mitchell songs up to be, and ironically, there’s a Joni Mitchell reference about halfway through. But I can’t stand that woman’s voice.)

I remember fleeting moments of realization that Jagged Little Pill was turning into one of the most influential albums of my adolescence, but I don’t remember the exact day that it transitioned into something more than that. Jagged Little Pill evolved over time. Its nuance grew, changed.

These days, I can relate. I’m broke, but I’m happy. I’m poor, but I’m kind. I’m not short, and I’m working on being healthy. I’m sane and overwhelmed, lost and hopeful.

And what it all comes down to, is that everything’s gonna be fine, fine, fine.