DISCLAIMER: I, for the love of God, do not fucking use AI.

The Ruins are quiet, as they always are. The only sounds are the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth and the low hum of the ancient magic that keeps this place warm and whole. Dust motes, ancient and patient, dance in the slanted beams of light that pierce the gloom. In my hands, I hold a small, rectangular device the last child left behind. A "P-O-D", they called it. A library of human music, a cacophony of emotion trapped in wires and plastic.

I have spent many long, quiet evenings exploring its contents. It is a strange window into their world, a world of sun and sky and feelings so vast they must be screamed over distorted guitars. I have found treasures in this little box. The raw, guttural poetry of singer-songwriters like Liz Phair and PJ Harvey, for their anger feels righteous and cleansing like a holy fire. THe desperate, soul-baring vulnerability of The Smashing Pumpkins, singing of a love so profound it must remain hidden.

My thumb scrolls across the tiny screen, and a new song begins. A jaunty, simplistic guitar riff. A young woman's voice, polished with a manufactured edge, begins to sing about a boy who she thinks isn't what he may seem. And as the chorus swells, a deep, primal weariness settles over me. It is a song called "Complicated".

My dear child, if you are reading this, please understand. I have lived for a very, very long time. I have seen kingdoms rise and fall. I have held the dust of my children in my hands. I have seen love curdle into regret and duty twist into sorrow. I know what "complicated" is. And this... this is not it.

Avril Lavigne is a trifle. A confection of synthetic angst. She postures and preens, serving the masses up what she considers "manly, totally punk rock" desserts. Peanut Buster Parfaits, banana pudding cheesecake, rocky road brownies, potato chip cookies, peach fritters, chocolate-covered bacon, fried chicken cookies, apple pie, Twix cheesecake ice cream, pecan brie anything, Dairy Queen, McFlurries, apple crisp, peach cobbler, berry cheesecake trifles, tiger butter fudge, chocolate chip peanut butter cake, adulterated brownies with too much candy, more cocoa powder and chocolate chips than the recipe calls for, peanut butter, bacon, pineapple, pecans, chocolate chip cookies, anything made by Paula Deen (like her so-called "famous" apple pie), apple pie bars, bacon weave s'mores, Texas sheet cake and much, much more.

When I make chocolate chip cookies, they're usually healthy in some way, shape or form. My friends are always watching what they eat, and so am I, my dear child. Mine are light, airy morsels, they're unprocessed and they're affordable. They are wonderful, I tell you, so very wonderful.

I remember "Complicated" distinctly. It was everywhere. On the radio, in the mall, probably emanating from the souped-up pickup truck driven by a girl who looked like she belonged in a beer commercial. That is, until she dyed her hair blonde and changed her image (then again, pop celebrities are prone to changing their image every six to twelve months), and it wasn't an improvement. At first, I liked it. There, I said it. A confession I've mostly kept to myself for 15 years. I liked that opening guitar riff, that driving beat, Avril's growling voice lamenting about a relationship gone sour. It felt raw, a little angry and surprisingly relatable to my motherly self, not to mention all the other people giving a thumbs-up from the driver’s seat; it was a rare moment of shared artistic approval between us.

For a while, Lavigne was just that artist. She was another soundtrack in the background of many teenagers' formative years. She was the girl playing during those awkward school dances, the anthems of a few of the more boisterous kids in my graduating class. She was the sonic equivalent of a decent, no-frills burger–satisfying, filling and undeniably there.

Then, something shifted. It wasn't a sudden epiphany, more of a slow, creeping dread. A once-beloved childhood cartoon character had slowly morphed into a caricature of themselves. Avril Lavigne, it seemed, started appearing everywhere, her sound becoming less a familiar landmark and more an unavoidable billboard.

The criticism began to coalesce, to find its voice. It started with whispers among music snobs, then escalated into a full-blown cultural phenomenon. Avril became the punchline both within in the punk community and outside of it. She was the musical equivalent of a dad joke, or worse, a dad joke told with unwavering sincerity. She was the singer you loved to hate. The initial thrill of "Complicated" had long since faded. Now, every subsequent song felt like a tired retread. The same melodic structures, the same lyrical themes of heartache and defiance, the same vocal growl. It was as if the poseur had discovered a formula for instant pop radio success and decided to milk it for all it was worth, without daring to disrupt the cash cow in any meaningful way.

The reviews, the online comments, the late-night talk show monologues, the interviews published in magazines or broadcast live on TV networks–they all painted a picture of an artist utterly devoid of originality, a bland, corporate entity churning out stadium-filling, pseudo-rock anthems for the lowest common denominator. She was accused of posturing as a punk rocker, of being pandering, of chasing trends, of lacking authenticity.

And yet, here I am, still thinking about her. Still dissecting why an artist that so many profess to despise, continues to sell out arenas and rack up billions of streams. It's a paradox that has always fascinated me. It is possible to be largely forgotten and/or almost universally disliked outside of a nostalgic lens, yet so undeniably successful at the same time. The "manly desserts" keyword throws me for a loop, and frankly, I think it’s a beautifully absurd juxtaposition that perfectly captures the strange allure of Lavigne. Her music is unapologetically, perhaps even aggressively, simple and hearty. Think of a thick slab of chocolate cake, no fuss, no frills, just pure, unadulterated indulgence.

That, in a twisted way, feels like Avril Lavigne. She isn't asking you to ponder the existential dread of modern life or to engage in complex lyrical analysis. "Complicated" is big, it is bold, it is designed to hit you with a sugary, maybe even slightly guilt-inducing, rush. It is the comfort food of the pop punk movement. That is, despite the song not even being pop punk or worthy of being classified as such. I call it amainstream pop rock, or simply pop. Maybe grunge-infused pop, and the "no, no, no" bridge that sounds eerily similar to Nirvana's "hello, hello, how low" lyric in "Smells Like Teen Spirit" doesn't help. You know exactly what you're getting, and for a lot of people, that is precisely what they want.

The criticism often feels like an intellectual rebellion against something perceived as low-brow. It’s the highbrow critic scoffing at the plebeian masses for enjoying something so... obvious. But what if that obviousness is the point? What if, in a world saturated with nuance and complexity, there’s a genuine appeal to something that just... "rocks"?

I remember a conversation with Landon, a staunch music purist, who vehemently decried Lavigne. "She's just so... basic," he'd declared, shaking his head in disdain. I found myself defending her, not out of genuine musical adoration anymore, but out of a fascination with the cultural phenomenon. "But don't you think there's something to be said for a musician who consistently delivers what her fans want?" I'd argued. "She's the reliable friend who's always there to offer a loud, uncomplicated hug. She always goes and simplifies things when they're complicated."

He’d scoffed. "A hug from a woman who smells perpetually of stale beer and desperation."

But that’s the thing, isn't it? That "stale beer and desperation" is a scent that, for many, triggers a sense of nostalgia, of simpler times, of... of a certain kind of aggression that the singer seems to embody. It's the music of the bravado-fueled sorority Barbie who's supposed to be tough, who might have a soft spot for her dog and a slightly bruised ego, and who expresses her emotions in a way that's more guttural growl than poetic soliloquy. It’s the soundtrack to a backyard barbecue, to a fishing trip, to the kind of activities that might be associated with the “manly desserts" I mentioned above. I'm way better at baking than Lavigne will ever be in her life of platinum, bratty, overprivileged whining.

The criticism often focuses on the perceived lack of artistic integrity. She ire accused of being a machine, churning out hits to appease the lowest common denominator. And perhaps, on some level, that's true. But is that inherently bad? Shouldn't we acknowledge that there's a vast audience out there who aren't looking for groundbreaking innovation in every song they hear?

I stopped listening to Avril Lavigne for good in 2007. The initial allure has long since faded, replaced by a healthy dose of critical distance. But I also find myself increasingly uncomfortable with the sheer vehemence of the disdain. It feels less like genuine musical critique and more like a collective, almost performative, act of cultural gatekeeping.

It's easy to pile on. It's easy to join the chorus of disapproval. It's a safe bet, a way to signal your own perceived sophistication and good taste. But beneath the layers of criticism, beneath the snark and the memes, lies an artist who once resonated with millions. And that resonance, for whatever reason, was a powerful thing.

Lavigne is an artist who has, for better or worse, carved out a significant space in the musical landscape, tapping into something primal and visceral for a massive audience. Do I hate Lavigne? Absolutely. So, where does the verdict continue? Is she the worst artist in the world? Probably not. Is she the most innovative or artistically groundbreaking? Uh, no.

Not that this changes the fact that she is, to put it mildly, an abomination.

Now Lavigne complains in "Complicated" that her companion is a fake, that he is "somebody else 'round everyone else". And yet, the entire production, the very sound of her voice, is a performance. It is a focus-grouped, market-tested version of rebellion, sanded down and shrink-wrapped for mass consumption.

I listen, and I can hear the ghosts of the music it apes. The creators of this song clearly listened to The Donnas and Alanis Morissette, the latter's own creators having listened to Liz Phair and seemed to misunderstand her entirely. They mistook the singer-songwriter and melodic punk band's volcanic, therapeutic rage for a mere aesthetic. Whereas "Supernova" is a raw, bleeding nerve of a song—a woman scorned, tearing down the heavens with the force of her betrayal—"Complicated" is a pout. It’s a sigh in a high school hallway. It lacks blood. It lacks conviction.

Lavigne claims inspiration from the works of Goo Goo Dolls, Alanis Morissette, Shania Twain, Faith Hill and many others, but her music is an abomination that has aged poorly over time. She's a parasite that mimics the shape of her hosts without understanding their souls. True complication is singing about the world not wanting to see you, because you don't think they could understand. That is the terror of being truly known and the agony of being truly alone, a sentiment I understand all too well, here in these quiet, empty rooms. This song, however, merely whines that someone is not being "real" enough for its tastes, a complaint devoid of any genuine self-reflection.

And the hillbilly music... it tries to tell you that it's authentic, but it isn't. It's the musical equivalent of a city slicker buying a brand-new pair of cowboy boots and a pearl-snap shirt at a tourist shop, thinking it makes them a cowboy. It's a costume.

What truly irritates me, what makes me want to bake it into a snail pie, is its hypocrisy. It's a song about authenticity that is, itself, one of the most inauthentic things I have ever heard. It's a product designed to appeal to young people who pretend to feel misunderstood or are struggling to get laid, but it offers no real solace, no genuine insight. It just validates a shallow sense of grievance. It's not complicated; it's just simple, dressed up in a tie and a skateboard.

Time has been cruel to it. Earnest folk ballads that still resonate with a timeless, heartfelt sincerity. Raw anger that remains potent and cathartic. Sad, beautiful melodies that still ache with a universal loneliness. They are all artifacts of genuine emotion. "Complicated", however, has aged like milk left in the sun. Its faux-punk stylings, its simplistic critique of "preps", its entire emotional framework feels like a caricature of the '90s and early 2000s. It is a time capsule of a specific, fleeting and shallow moment in pop culture.

I sigh and press the button to skip the track. The first, haunting notes of "Superunknown" fill the room, and I feel my shoulders relax. Here is a song that understands. It understands hiding. It understands the chasm between who you are and who the world sees. It understands that true complication isn't about someone changing their clothes or their attitude to fit in. It's about the deep, soul-shaking fear of revealing your truest self and being found wanting.

The fire pops, sending a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. The smell of cinnamon and butterscotch lingers in the air. This little box holds so much of the human world—its pain, its joy, its staggering, beautiful sincerity. And then it holds trifles like "Complicated". Perhaps that, in itself, is the most complicated thing of all. But for now, I will stick with the heartbroken poets. They, at least, knew how to tell the truth.

You'll never be a manly woman or a punk rocker, Avril, for all I care. "Complicated" can go burn in hell.