My name is Brittney, and I have music defecit disorder. I know this about myself, but I refuse to see a problem with it. Others, however, most certainly do. So, I thought I should take some time to address it.

For starters, I have a very tumultuous relationship with music. Sometime there can be music blaring and I never once hear a note or a single word. Sometimes there can be music on and people singing it, but I’m so in some zone that I don’t even know it exists. Conversly, there are times (which are a] when I am reading b] when I am writing) that I really can’t stand to hear music. Can’t do it. Sometimes I’ll be all, “I’m going to listen to some tunes and look about the interweb.” Then about 15 minutes into surfing I find something lengthy or weighty that I want to read and must shut the music off. When it stops I am often heard to sigh in relief. Sometimes music makes me really crazy and anxious and it has to go, right then. There were times when I lived alone in the studio apartment that I would go–literally–weeks or months without listening to a CD. I would spend days in that room in total silence. Occasionally I would shuffle the 200 or so mp3’s I have on my hard drive. But I rarely listen to whole albums.

I have a hard time naming ten bands that I absolutely love. Isn’t that weird? I’ve always had just an artist or two or four that move me and make me soar in the way that music is apt to do. But for me it is very seldom that I am blown away by something I hear. In high school it was Tori. In college it was Bjork. I own very few CDs and listen to even fewer. I’ve just never been that into listening to music.

I once thought it was because I couldn’t afford it. I wasn’t about to pay $17 for a CD. That will turn out to be GARBAGE. But then I got a CD burner. I just knew that I would be downloading and burning new and interesting, hard-to-find music. But nope. I flip the radio dial every morning on my way to work.

It’s because I have internet finger. I can’t keep it still. If I put a CD in I will impulsively punch it to the next song, or constantly change the volume or put in on shuffle. Most times I prefer scanning the FM radio while in the car, even if everything I hear is crap.

Which, it isn’t. Granted, 90% of shit on the radio is really shitty. I’m talking horrid. But what haters of the radio are missing out on is the huge laughter potential that comes with listening to radio. Forget those fucker DJs. I hate those assholes. I’m talking about the songs themselves. You haven’t heard funny until you’ve heard Jessica Simpson try to rhyme in her newest single. Or heard R. Kelly croon about “taking his key and sticking it in the ignition.” You can’t get that shit anywhere else. And the funniest genre of music on the radio right now is mainstream hip-hop. Which is HUGE in the South. Those songs are pure idiocy. I swear to God, almost every modern hip-hop song I here on the radio talks about nothing but women and how best to demean them. “Bend over, lemme see it.” “Hold her still, I’m gonna milk the cow.” “Can I play with your pantyline?” It’s so gross. It makes me so fucking sad. If only because it is so prevelant.

But! Hip-hop is the music on the radio that has the most interesting and innovative sounds. A lot of those Grab Your Ankles songs have some of the most infectious beats. I’ve wholely given up on new rock on the radio, and most of the straight pop is diarrhea, too. Justin Timberlake is good when he isn’t hooking up with that Nelly ass. And that new Britney Spears single was alright until I heard it four thousand fucking times.

Which is why I mostly listen to NPR. Which brings me back to my music defecit disorder. I just don’t feel the need to have it. And I don’t feel like I’m missing out. Which is why it surprises me when people just can’t get over the fact that I don’t love music, and crave it in the way that a lot of the rest of you freaks do. I just don’t. I guess it was how I was raised. My parents didn’t listen to much music. Ever. The only music I associate strongly with my childhood is cartoon themes and Chipmunk records and a bit of country. My dad used to sing me this Tom T. Hall song called “I Love” (”little baby ducks…”), which he bought me the CD for last year. But other than that no music to speak of growing up. In fact, I remember thumbing through old records in the basement, wondering what they might sound like. I remember names like Fleetwood Mac. Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall.” Some record that had a doll propped up in front of a headstone, which always creeped me the fuck out. But I don’t remember hearing any of it.

And so in my adulthood music is sort of secondary to me as far as passions go. I tend to appreciate songs that make your heart break, things with danceable beats, or music that is melodic. I shy away from music that is atonal or abrasive or cold. I like very little punk. I love electropop.

I imagine people think I’m really missing out. Perhaps I am. Because if someone asked me what CD I’d want to take with me to a deserted island, I might ask them if I could bring something else all together.

Which makes me a soulless freakshow, I know.