Coming to terms with Rebecca Black.

Today the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and thanks to long nights at the school board and a work assignment this weekend, I get to skip outta here (work) at 2 p.m.!

It's moments like these, I appreciate Rebbecca Black for what I have finally come to terms with as her poetic genius.

And apparently, so did a bartender in Charleston two Fridays ago...

For those of you who haven't already witnessed this monstrosity, I saw it for the first time about a month ago, and almost died from exposure to stupidity. 

This is possibly the worst song ever produced in the history of the world.

I cringed at the sound of it, I scratched my head wondering how it was even possible for something so bad to exist.

I wondered "Was this for real? This has to be a joke."

I didn't know what to think, but in the end,  I settled on pity for the poor misguided girl who probably had all the best intentions of putting out the "next big party hit" only to fall flat on her face in a sea of pointing and laughter.

Fast forward to about a month later. 

Every damn Friday (as well as other random days of the week for that matter) this song (or variations of it, depending on the day) gets stuck in my head.

And it doesn't drive me crazy, like you might think. 

It actually gets me kinda pumped for the weekend.

Now, I'm wondering, "Was all that pity I channeled toward poor, innocent Rebbecca in vain? Did she really know what the hell she was doing this whole time?"

Hell,  however mind-bogglingly grating her song, it is undeniably catchy.

And she has become an Internet sensation seemingly overnight.

Apparently, this chick is smarter than she looks (and sounds.)

And here's proof:

Happy Friday, erryone!