![]() I persuaded my parents to buy me everything in olive green and burnt orange because that was, more or less, the Abercrombie color scheme. The quest was doomed, of course, but nobody could say I didn’t try. I was in fact a tween, and it was on purpose it was part of my trying so hard to metamorphose from a computer geek with helmet hair and mismatched clothes to a real preteen girl, the sort who’d appear mid-leap on the cover of a Delia’s catalog. ![]() You know you’re either destined to be a music critic or a sad, depleted adult -yes, yes, you’re so funny-when you realize you spent multiple nights as a preteen hunched over a clock radio with a legal pad, writing down the names of everything on the radio, plus playcounts, plus thoughts, plus hearts doodled in the margins because you are in fact a tween. (And to be fair, we’re also going to see how these songs have stood the test of time.) ![]() This month, to celebrate the Internet’s unbridled love for wallowing in nostalgia and even greater relishing of talking about why certain cultural artifacts are horrible, Sound of the City presents First Worsts, a series in which our writers remember the first time… they ever hated a song enough to call it The Worst.
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