I don't know who wrote this but it is so true, if you know who wrote it let me know and I will give her credit! Thanks!
You don't mean for these things to happen, they just do. It
seems to me as if they have a mind of their own. One day you're
enjoying "I Want You Back" singing along with your
local radio station as you head towards the beach. What seems
like the next day, you're holed up in your room, best friend in
the next chair, remote in hand, watching "*N The Mix" for
the second time that day. It is sad. It is heart
wrenching. It may even make you want to cry. It is all true. For
what you are about to read is an entirely bona fide
account. It is the confessions of an addict. In the beginning, I
hated those who loved *NSYNC. I most certainly loved their
music, but I did not know them, their personalities,
favorite colors, or hometowns. Nor did I care. At times,
I would recognize the blonde with the curly hair, but
did not know who he was. As for the girl who sat next to
me in 12th grade psychology, I would roll my eyes every
time she would pull out her binder, plastered with
pictures of, once again, the blonde with the curly hair or the
cute guy from Bowie. He was the local favorite, since
Bowie is a mere fifteen minutes away. I couldn't fathom
why these five young men had such a profound affect on
her, which would make her so crazy that she couldn't make it
through an entire class period without mentioning their
names. What was it about these guys that gave them the ability to
get under the skin of so many across the world? What made
them so powerful? I was soon about to find out. One day
it happened. I was bitten by the bug, known> as acute,
prolonged *NSYNCitis. An inflammation of the mind,
heart, CD player, and most importantly, wallet. It spreads
quickly, and is relatively incurable. Because believe me, I've
tried. The infection set in, and within days I was a
devout fan. I screamed at their concert, had "We Love Joey" signs
hanging from the back of my car, and actually sang
"Tearin' Up My Heart" in front of stodgy adults in a grocery
store parking lot who didn't know who NSYNC was. Things proceeded
to get worse. I soon had an "NSYNC tape" full of
all their TV appearances, from TRL to Rosie O'Donnell. My
sister and I laughed hysterically when someone ordered "rigatoni"
instead of ziti (because rigatoni is too big to be
ziti) at an Italian restaurant. Ice cream sandwiches (especially
when someone ate twelve of them) became just that
much cuter. I gained the ability to point out Clarion,
PA, on a map, and Dalmatians took on a whole new
meaning. I was flying high, enjoying the ride, until college
happened.I realized that my mild preoccupation with the boys of
*NSYNC would probably not be the most respected thing in
the hallowed halls of higher education. So as I took
posters and pictures off of my wall, with a pit in my stomach, I
vowed to end my fascination, reducing it to simply
listening to their CDs on occasion. I felt that it was part of
the growing up process. This lasted a total of five days.
Because then I met Meg. Someone else who experienced
the same pride and giddy thrill to see *NSYNC on
television, who knew how to shush everyone in a room when
"Music of My Heart" came onto TRL, and who was not only
willing to watch "*N the Mix" countless times with me,
but was willing to go fifteen hours and shell out $200 to
see them perform in late December in a small North Dakota
town. (Eighth row. 46 days from now). But recently, we
have begun to realize the ramifications of our codependence
on *NSYNC. And they are scary. I've sat at home on Saturday nights;
not out at the bars with my friends, but
watching my tapes and downloading those priceless MMC clips.
Instead of calculus, I make collages. While I should be online
buying my plane ticket home for Christmas, I plan road
trips to other cities in other states, to see them for
the second time this year. I can't see a Mercedes without
smiling and the word "tearin" is always followed
(even if under my breath) by "up my heart". These are the true
stories of my sad existence. Of my addiction.
We need help. We want help. But we just don't know how to get it.
And Lord knows we've tried. Tried to quit cold turkey
("No more *NSYNC, ever!"), which lasted about ten minutes. We
tried to quit gradually ("Okay, we'll just watch '*N the Mix'
once a week from now on instead of daily, no talking about them,
and no surfing the Net for pictures!). This lasted till
breakfast the next morning, when the girl at the next
table was wearing a Tarheels jacket ("Carolina blue,
baby!"). We've tried everything. It just doesn't work. No matter
how many times we discipline ourselves, we keep
falling off of the wagon. I do want to stop. I don't want to be
this way anymore. I want to be able to see Mississippi Mud
ice cream, and think only of ice cream. I want to be able
to watch a "Superman" movie on TBS without thinking of a
certain flaming-haired Brooklyn-boy. I want to hear the
word "Orlando," and think of just Disney World, nothing else. I
just want to be free of all of this. I just want to be
free. But I can't. I must live with myself, with this monster
that I've created. Maybe someday it'll get better. Maybe someday
I'll stop caring. Maybe someday I will come to the
realization that I've been so silly and wasted so much of
my money and so much of my time and energy. But until
then, I am still a weak, weak girl, whose freshman year in
college will probably be marred because she watches "MTV All
Access" and "Summer Jams" one too many times. I am addict,
and
this is perhaps worse than any chemical dependency.
Heroin has got nothing on JC Chasez. But maybe, just maybe, I
will one day find the will power, and maybe, just maybe, one day
I will be free. Soon I will be free.