My name might be Jennifer, but it's not Jennifer Lopez. I might wear v-necks, but I'm not Simon Cowell. I might slur my words a bit and have a very complicated relationship with a cartoon cat sidekick that raps with me, but I'm not Paula Abdul. So please, do not treat my register like the American Idol audition room. Serenading your cashier will not make the poor unfortunate soul sing a rip roaring duet with you. I also refuse to create a back beat for your epic ballad with the dinging of the scanner and keystrokes. This isn't Glee. Thank God.
It doesn't help that hell has one of the worst musical selections ever. And if I don't initially hate the song, I grow to despise it. Sure, there are a few exceptions besides the obvious Queen and Sprinsteen. I do often request that you tell me what you want, what you really, really want. I still like to live la vida loca while being indecisive about two princes who adore me. And, yes, I do pretend to work at Empire Records when Gin Blossoms come on, mainly because that movie so lied to me about the level of awesomeness in part time jobs. What can I say? I guess I'm still a 90s kid through and through. But, please, keep your Savage Garden to yourself. Unless you are standing outside of my window next a Vespa holding a boombox in the air playing a burnt CD of your mix for me (The 90s version of Say Anything). Even then I might call the cops or throw things at you.
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