Guess I never got the memo

 
            If I ever meet Ke$ha,  I'm going to ask her what it means to 'wake up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy.' I mean I've had my fair share of 'college experiences,' but I still don't get the reference.

 
            Do you wake up in a Sean Jean sweatsuit, only to glance over at your Rolex and see that you're late for a taping of Making the Band?

 
            That sounds kind of boring, unless she meant old Diddy/Puffy, which is really just a vintage version of current Kanye. If that's the case, then she meant she woke up with a terrible hangover and an empty bottle of Hennessy.

 
            Ke$ha, I'm really happy for your commercial success and I'ma let you finish, but … what are you even talking about?

 
            I think too deeply about things that don't matter and this is why I don't get the full enjoyment out of the things that my peers seem to. Blame the English major, blame my love of Walt Whitman, blame years of watching '90s teen dramas featuring overly verbose teenagers with a large vocabulary (I mean you, Dawson's Creek!), but I think way too much.

 
            I can't go out with friends, hear a new song and just ‘like' it. I have to think about it. Endlessly. Painstakingly. Eternally. It's a buzzkill.

 
            Case in point: When I first heard 'Party in the USA' by Miley Cyrus, I couldn't enjoy the infectious beat or catchy hook. No, I had to point out that despite what Miley tells us, you cannot 'hop off a plane at LAX' and 'look to your right and see the Hollywood sign.' They are nowhere near each other. Guess Disney agents don't hook you up with geography tutors.

 
            I also don't understand how a 'Britney song' rectifies her fashion faux pas of choosing 'kicks' over stilettos, and alas, I probably never will.

 
            I remember the day my over-analyzing of pop music all started.

 
            It was back in 2000; I was riding the bus home from another long and trying day of seventh grade when 'E.I.' by Nelly came on the radio. It was the hot new song of the moment and within the first 45 seconds it was already ruined for me.

 
            'I'm a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes,' raps Nelly.

 
            And there I was, a starry-eyed 12-year-old who turned to the person sharing her seat and said, 'You don't manicure toes. You pedicure them. ‘Ped' is the root for foot.'

 
            I'm pretty sure my seatmate rolled his eyes and told me to shut up, just like one of my co-workers at my summer internship did when I explained that in Taylor Swift's 'Our Song,' Swift shouldn't be talking 'real slow' if she doesn't want to wake up her mother – she should be whispering.

 
            I think too much. And while it's kept me out of most forms of trouble, it's annoying. Why is it so hard for me just to enjoy things for what they are?

 
            It's not like I can just stop, either. It's a hard impulse to control and these songs keep being released and played on the radio. I'm trapped and there's no escape!

 
            What am I supposed to do? Turn off Chelsey Lately, close the newspaper, keep my head perpetually stuck in Pride and Prejudice and end up like a Charles Dickens Miss Havisham-type character?

 
            While I do enjoy wedding cake, that's no way to live your life.

 
            It's a curse. I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life being more like a sarcastic and nerdy VH1 nostalgia show commentator than I'm comfortable with. It's not cool.

 
            Maybe one day I'll get the memo explaining the method behind these pop songs. If you've already received it, would you forward it to me?

 
 

 
E-mail: caitlin.tremblay@ubspectrum.com