Embracing My Inner Jackass

It has come time to admit that in order for me to suss out jackasses and all things jackass-like, I must have the ability to come clean about the jackass nature within myself.

I have a creepy and unhealthy obsession with the "musician" Avril Lavigne.

This obsession goes beyond buying magazines with interviews so I can read them out loud with friends and mock her.

I have been known to sit through entire videos and live performances. She's like a car crash happening in front of my eyes: I don't want to look and see the unfolding horror of impacting vehicles or hear the frightening, unholy sounds of screeching and crunching metal on metal, but I feel compelled to do so--if only to bear witness to the brutality, to help file a report of culpability when the police come calling.

Let me be clear: I don't own any of her music. I will not listen to it on the radio. Her entire catalog is a crude attempt at ripping-off other, better songs that came way before her time. Her voice is a screaming cry for help no one should answer.

But if I see her on the TV, though, it's an entirely different story. She's like a modern-day Circe, enchanting me, forcing me to watch her and to forget all common-sense, decency, standards and taste.

I need help. And if admitting I need help makes me a jackass, then I am. It shall be the contradiction of this Blog.