Hi, I'm a deviant, and I fucking adore pop music. (And pretty much every other genre too)

On buying my first Britney Spears album. In 2013.

Recently I felt a pang of…something…when I found myself clicking “buy now” on “Femme Fatale” on the Amazon MP3 site. I mean I can (sort of) justify  it by saying that it was only $2.99, and that’s practically theft in this day and age, but really, Britney? Really? What is wrong with me? (You might ask, as I have asked myself many a time.)

Would it make you feel better if I told you I immediately cleansed myself by listening to pretentious hipster alt rock? Yes? Then you should probably stop reading.

Not to say that I didn’t do that, because I did, but because if you said yes, you really ain’t gonna like what comes next.

I mean, yeah, I am the person who removed the Showgirls tape from the VCR (yes I’m that old) with tongs to avoid touching it with my bare hands. While I have just a touch of pretension (and, no, I didn’t get the joke, nor did I see the camp), I have a few “guilty” pleasures and I’m not afraid to admit it.

I am a sucker for well produced pop music, whether or not the “artist” has any talent. I like songs with well crafted hooks that are danceable and fun.

And Britney is nothing if not well produced.

Probably my only truly guilty pleasure is Chris Brown’s song “yo,” and that’s mostly due to personal issues. (Don’t hit, Chris. This is shit the rest of us learned before elementary school.)

All that being said, I look kinda like a hipster. I swear, I am not one, mostly because I’m too old. Still, other people have pointed out that I look hipsterish, do hipstery things, live in an up and coming hipster neighborhood (I was here before it was cool, bitches) and listen to hipstery music.

Shit.

I can save myself by saying two things: I hate bicycles, and I listen to Britney Spears in a totally non-ironic manner. Also, I show emotions other than disdain. 

One day, I’m sitting on the subway, thumbing through the music on my phone, glancing at the hipster guy sitting next to me, also on his way home to our hipsterish neighborhood. Meanwhile, he’s looking over my shoulder at my music. He jerks away when I get to a Britney song.

Thankfully I am comfortable enough in my own skin to be able to mostly subvert any embarrassment from being judged by the douchenozzle in the skinny jeans, suspenders, plaid shirt and “heritage” beard sitting next to me. So fuck you and your wanna-be extra in Boardwalk Empire clothes. Go home and weep about my Britney album into your leather apron while you make your artisanal pickles.

God, I can’t wait until my epic post on the Spice Girls, and my non-ironic love for them.