All this time, I couldn't wait until I was back in my apartment and could turn up the Ashlee Simpson album. Sure, it's overproduced perfection, but raw teen angst still emerges from the polished pop sounds and the impossibly infectious hooks. Oh, you drive me crazy, oh, you just bring me down. Somehow I relate to Ashlee, with her unconventional looks and her nagging self-conscious. But just this once I wanted to reject Top 40 as the soundtrack to my life and instead pop in Ultra Chilled 01 — the ultimate make-out CD, as one unrequited crush once said. Not tonight though. Tonight is Ashlee and Britney and Avril and Mariah. It's clean and tangible and uninvolved. It's what I'm used to, and it's fine.