Watching MTV’s Video Music Awards is the quickest way to remind me that I inch closer towards old age and that blessed grumpy judgmental indignation that comes with it. Each year it grows increasingly worse and yet I submit myself to it in the name of “fashion science” to see what the kids are into these days.

5 minutes in - For the millionth year in a row I claim that no one plays instruments anymore they just shake their ass and what happened to the days when music meant something. Because, as we all know, the music from when you were growing up is always the best.

20 minutes in – I am aghast no one steps in to help Miley Cyrus who is clearly having a stroke of some kind? Her tongue hangs from her slack jaw while her body convulses and the response is…cheering? At least Drake refuses to make eye contact clearly upset by the lack of response to a medical emergency.

21 minutes in – It appears a large colony of overstuffed bears might be trying to infiltrate the show. Let’s all keep an eye on this bear situation for the next few days.

45 minutes in – (having just remembered seeing him on the red carpet) I finally get to say a sentence aloud I’ve been waiting my whole life to say, “Richard Simmons is a style icon.” Seconds later: “MTV keeps spandex in the black. 

Losing track of time and beginning to blank out – Years ago I would say Justin Timberlake was a cheesy boy bander. Now I feel so grateful to see them all in their man suits, I try to reach through the screen to hug them and wind up with the only injury of the evening. #fail 

The end – I come out of my old age coma to see Katy Perry try to instigate Rocky Boxer Chic as “a thing.” It does not work.

Why do I do this to myself every year?

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