It’s come to my attention that I have a very routine morning. According to Wikipedia, the most reliable source on the Internet, a routine is “a course of normative, standardized actions or procedures that are followed regularly, often repetitiously.”
In Lara terms? It’s a way to avoid getting ready for work.
My alarm goes off, I hit the snooze. My cell phone buzzes, I respond to a text blindly – for two reasons, the main one being that I refuse to actually open them and the secondary being that without my glasses focusing is a challenge. (Shut UP.) At this point, I generally try to go back to sleep while my phone and alarm race to be the next obnoxious noise to wake me.
This goes on for at least 20-minutes. Sometimes longer.
There are few things that wake me immediately. And this morning it became very evident that one of said things is trendy-pop music that I gobble up like a fat kid + cake.
Feeling vominous, yet? No?
I love Miley Cyrus. And I HATE that I love her.
First off, she is named after either your 90-year old great aunt that you met once and were enamored by the ridiculous amount of crap that she obtained throughout her life…or your next door neighbors dog. Secondly, she was born in the early 90’s…making her ALMOST 18 (boys, keep your pants on.) Even knowing both of these things, I am still addicted to her bubbly, mainstream lyrics.
When Party in the USA first came out, the radio station I listen to religiously worshipped all that is Miley by playing it at least once an hour. Meaning that I could wake up, snooze, text, dream, snooze, check my FB newsfeed, sleep, text and if I was lucky hear it again.
What a disgusting habit. What is the possibility that the music industry laces these songs with nicotine?
I had hoped that my adoration for crappy pop was a recent development. Something that my brain developed an affliction for after three years out of college and a job that is somewhat taxing on my mental stability.
Then S wrote on my Facebook wall:
“The door bell rings cause the party’s here, I’m crankin up the stereo like it’s New Year, walkin round the house like who’s Da Man – can’t nobody do it like Aaron can! Miss you!”
If you don’t get that, congratulations. You must play the Beatles, Bob Dylan and possibly Frank Sinatra through your ear buds. (If you don’t have ear buds, I am questioning my desire to be friends with you. Headphones went out of style with your rollerblades. Believe it.)
If you continued on, mumbling “First on the floor! You know that’s me. Bustin’ out the moves like it’s MTV.” to yourself with a headbob – then your brain must be filled with endless hours of Backstreet Boys, pre-crazy Britney and probably Destiny’s Child. Welcome to my world. That, dear friends, is Aaron Carter – brother of BSB Nick.
And that is DEFINITELY no recent development. Prepare yourself for countless commercials of random hipsters shouting the side effects of catchy tunes that have limited cultural impact, because if Miley and Aaron produce an offspring I can only imagine the cheesey crap that will come out of that child’s perfectly harmonic mouth.
Until next time, find me changing stations until landing on Katy Perry’s California Gurls. Or maybe Kei$ha’s Your Love is My Drug. She spells her name with a dollar sign and people think it’s cool. WTF?