Ever since I was little I have been a KIDZ BOP® kid. My parents would by little CD's of KIDZ BOP® and have them delivered in the mail. I thought life was great. I had my flippin' rad beatz to listen to, and they were kid-friendly as heck. All was going well until I dug deeper into the lyrics of KIDZ BOP®. And I was shocked at the lyrics v.s. the lyrics of the actual songs. You see, KIDZ BOP® was the only music I was familiar to. I didn't know that KIDZ BOP® was parodying songs. I tried listening to the original songs and I hated it. I soon realized that I was addicted to KIDZ BOP®. I couldn't stop. I noticed that my mood started to change, and my family grew worried. I locked myself in my room, and listened to KIDZ BOP® all day. I never came out of my room. My parents soon decided to get me help, and got rid of my KIDZ BOP®. I was devastated. My poor babies. I went to therapy for a while and got a little better. But there was still an underlying need for KIDZ BOP®. Instead of going to school, I was on the streets hustlin' to make a livin'. I would earn few dollars a day, doing things a 6-year-old should never do.


5 Months Later~
I had gained myself a well-sized collection. And the addiction got worse. I had to hide the CD's of KIDZ BOP® in my walls, and I had to use cheap
Spider-Man headphones, and an Insignia® portable CD player to use my contraband. All was well, but my parents started to notice it. The signs of the KIDZ BOP® addiction.

1. Constant singing of trendy songs but with strange and mysterious lyrics
2. Constant tapping of the foot or finger
3. Jitterness
4. Paranoia
5. Bursting out into dance randomly

My parents began to investigate.
When I came home from school on a kid-friendly KIDZ BOP® day, my parents called me into the family room and sat me down. They shared their worries and suspicions. I grew eager to get out of the situation. Every attempt I had to persuade them into letting me go, made them more suspicious. They then asked to see my backpack. I hesitantly warrent their request. I pray in my mind that they don't find my babies. My parents open my bag and sift through all my school supplies. And when their expression changed to horror, my heart dropped. They slowly pull out my KIDZ BOP® CD's. I jump up and yell, "I can explain!"
It was no use. They just look at me and I accept what they want me to do. My heart shatters. Each piece leaving a trail up the stairs and into my room. I hate myself for giving up so easily. I grow angery and filled with hatred. My eyes turn yellow with the dark side of the force. Everything is gloomy in the house. No-one wants to say a thing. But my anger fuels my belief that I can save padm- I mean my KIDZ BOP® CD's. I wait for the night so I can pounce. Night comes. I am still filled with pure hatred. My parents are asleep. I creep down stairs, into the kitchen, and grab the biggest knife I could. I walk back up stairs, open my parent's door, screech as loud as I can, and start swinging. Before I knew it, there was blood all over me and in my parent's room. The deed was done. I search in their room for my CD's, and I find them. All of them. I knew that the dead bodies would be a problem. But I didn't care. I grab my larger CDplayer/radio, walk up to the cold, dark, itchy attic, sit down in a corner, plug my CD player in, open up the hatch, placed KIDZ BOP® 15 into the player, hit play, lit a cigarette, and jammed out like a badass to my favorite tunes.