Simon Vozick-Levinson is a lifelong New Yorker and a senior editor at Rolling Stone. His tweets at @simonwilliam are okay.

1:20am, inside the Pop Cube experience at a gallery in Brooklyn: Strobe lights, hard beats and pitch-shifted vocals from the PC Music crew. Dancing in ways that will guarantee an aching back to come, but the present bliss is totally worth it. Surrounded by colleagues, random old friends, random new friends, total strangers. I am here “prepping for an interview.” Sophie’s closing set is almost over. I don’t think I’m drunk anymore but I am definitely having fun.

1:40am, in a cab: Earlier tonight, listening to friends complain about a perpetually sour apple, I suggested that said spheroid listen to Nicki Minaj, Lil Wayne, and Birdman’s 2011 classic “Y. U. Mad” in hopes of clarifying matters. Now that song is in my head. Good song. That’s y. u. mad, that’s y. u., y. u., mad-mad…Ok maybe I’m still a little buzzed.

2:10am, home. I enjoy a postmidnight snack of roasted almonds and organic raisins, shoutout Trader Joe.

2:30am, bed. Gaze idly at Twitter. Everyone’s asleep, dummy. But wait! Someone responded to one of my tweets from tonight! Yessss, sweet validation.

3:05am: Crash out.

8:30am: Awake with the springtime sun to live and laugh life to the fullest! Haha jk I’m still asleep as fuck.

12:15pm: I wake up for real and try to recall the dream I was just having. All I remember is running through a dystopian grocery store with a great sense of urgency, knocking stuff over and grabbing food as I ran from the authorities. I think this means I’m hungry but I don’t feel like getting out of bed yet so I spend a few minutes lying wrapped in a sheet and scrolling through Instagram with one eye open instead. I can hear Sarah, my Trap Queen, having breakfast in the other room. We’ve been together for 11 years, and I love her with a passion inexpressible by any sequence of emojis (except I guess by a bunch of the fire ones and maybe some winky-face-tongue-sticking-outs, with an equal share of heart-eyes). Our fifth wedding anniversary is in a couple weeks, but we still haven’t decided how to celebrate. We have begun to think about adding a small new killer to our clique, and that makes these quiet moments at home with just the two of us feel even more special.

1:45pm, living room. As I fry up some sausages and sip black Irish Breakfast tea, I put on the new Speedy Ortiz album. I’ve liked this band since my friend Kristen put me on to them a couple of years ago; I love Foil Deer more than anything they’ve done before. And while I’m working on a story about the band this week, this weekend listen is just because I want to hear it again. Sadie Dupuis’ intricately interlaced lyrics and guitar playing, and her bandmates’ consistently surprising twists and turns, offer up new favorite details on every spin. iTunes says I’ve played the record 10-15 times in the last two weeks, but that’s just here at home. If you add the plays on my work computer and my phone, plus the two shows I’ve seen them perform recently, it’s twice that.

2:30pm: The first Lord of the Rings movie is on TV. Sarah knows every line of dialogue, as she demonstrates by making bold statements in Elvish every few minutes. I have a tweet saved in my drafts folder about how the shrieks of the C train pulling into its station sound exactly like the Nazgul flying over Weathertop, and how that would be mad traumatic for any member of the Fellowship who ended up commuting in Manhattan. I consider sending it.

2:50-3:40pm: Laze about the apartment listening to songs on YouTube (Springsteen, Fetty Wap, Abba, Cam’Ron). Tweet an observation about Fetty, Bruce, and New Jersey romanticism and get a bunch of favs and RTs. This boost of approval gives me the motivation to finally shower and get dressed.

4:10pm: Leave the apartment for the first time today to walk around the neighborhood with Sarah. We end up strolling through Morningside Park, which just last week was a riot of spring colors. Today most of the tulips have lost their blooms except for a few lonely splashes of pink, and the trees’ shed petals are a soft and trampled carpet. Sarah sighs and says something about time; I actually kinda like how quickly the flowers’ beauty comes and goes, knowing that it will all be back in a year.

4:40pm: Back at the apartment after dropping Sarah off at her yoga studio. Check the mail and find the Speedy Ortiz LP I ordered online the other night! Buying new and used vinyl late at night is my big vice right now. I’m such a cliché.

4:45pm: I get upstairs and remember about the clothes. Earlier this spring, I asked Sarah to please stop doing our laundry, in an effort to combat unexamined inequalities in our relationship. (Previously we tried to share laundry duties, but she always ended up doing way more than me.) She took me up on this, and as a result there is now a large plastic tub full of dirty clothing next to our bed. I sit and stare at it for a while before lugging it down to the laundry room, where I do laundry stuff with it.

5:30pm: I make gradual progress on the New York Times Magazine’s cryptic crossword (a hobby picked up from my mother) while lounging on the couch and listening to the Speedy Ortiz album for the second time today, this time on the turntable. I pause my puzzling to sing along to the perfect bridge of “The Graduates.”

7pm: Still on the couch, sleepily crosswording, and have moved on to Joanna Newsom’s Ys, the spoils of another recent small-hours vinyl spree. I find this album so intensely moving that I rarely revisit it: It feels too profound for casual background listening. I keep putting down the xword to listen more closely. The final verse of “Emily,” where she addresses “Joy / Landlocked in bodies that don’t keep / Dumbstruck with the sweetness of being” always gets me.

7:45pm: Briefly imagine the voiceover guy from the outro to “Trap Queen” shouting, “Yeah, you hear my girl sounding like a zillion bucks on the track!!!” at the end of “Only Skin.”

7:50pm: We seamless some sushi and set out on an evening walk. Someone has tagged our street corner with a vaguely disturbing chalk cartoon reading, “This is NOT the 6” next to a hand holding a gun. Does this mean we’ve been playing Drake too loudly lately……or not loudly enough? We keep walking in a world crowded with woes.

8:40pm: We consider catching the new Avengers movie, but that shit is two and a half hours long. Maybe next weekend. Instead we wander on through our neighborhood, making stops to purchase an iced white tea — blueberry flavored, hella refreshing — and a couple of nice artisanal soaps for our moms. We’re not heading anywhere in particular, and we talk about nothing the whole way. When we hit the northwest corner of Central Park we turn back around.

9:45pm: Back at the crib, we watch an episode from season two of Orphan Black on demand. This series is highly entertaining at the same time as being way ridiculous and giving off strong whiffs of being made up as it goes along. It’s sort of like Alias in that way, and I find it similarly snackable.

10:40pm: Another episode of Orphan Black. What have those crazy clones gotten into this time? Everyone’s just clonin’ around in the clone zone, as usual.

11:46pm: Another Saturday is almost over. We close the day out with 14 minutes of quiet reflection (also known as making fun of people we don’t like for their bad tweets) (just kidding we would never do that). As the clock strikes 12, I bid the Eye a fond goodnight and put down my phone.