So Michael is looking very dapper this evening, but nobody in a neck scarf like that deserves to be taken seriously, so his sincerity is lost on me. Also, those high notes! Sheesh, way to inspire an uncomfortable conversation about Simon’s saggy chest. Oh, Ryan, what are you thinking?

Syesha. Uber-diva song. White pants. Bored now.

Oh god, the Hobbit has a ukelele. And I have a confession. The reason I recoil so totally from this boy is that I sort of dated a guy like this in college. No dreads, but mine maybe might have had a goatee. And a guitar. And a deep love of Phish. I know, :hangs head in shame: And you want to know that really bad part? He broke my heart. So Jason is a no.

But Kristie is a yes. She’s sort of my favorite now, what with her devious song choices and fabulous self-awareness. I prefer evil geniuses to you know, sincere good performers, and you can’t tell me that picking such a heartfelt, ‘can’t kick this puppy’ track isn’t part of her fabulous masterplan to outlive all the better singers.

David could use some of her strategy, and her stylist. Please, stop dressing like a member of Panic At the Disco and singing like you’re in a late 90’s industrial act. And shave. And wash your hands. Pull yourself together, boy. This is yours to lose.

(Did Paula get ‘definitive’ on her word-of-the-day toilet paper?)

Carly is gone. That is all.

Oh David, indecision does not become you. Nor does picking a British classic, and wimping out on it. The white, the piano, the halo hovering above you, bathing us all in the purity and wonder that is—

Ahem.

Yes, I hate him. Yes, he may well win. Sigh.

And Brooke rounds it out with kittens and rainbows and snugglies. Cute, but it’s getting old. Plus, give Marsha Brady her dress back.

Tomorrow: Schlock celebrity overkill! Yay! My roommate is already cowering in fear.