When it comes to music, I try to keep an open mind.

I’m not one of those pretentious fans who discredits any and every song found on the radio or even a fan that sticks to one genre in particular.

I welcome all types of music and, for the most part, can appreciate everything for what it is. If I don’t like a certain song or an artist I’ll usually just leave it at, “It’s just not for me.”

As Common once rapped, “If I don’t like it, I don’t like it. That don’t mean that I’m hatin’.”

There are always exceptions, however, and right now that exception is “Call Me Maybe.” I absolutely loathe “Call Me Maybe.”

The song is everywhere. I can’t go to a party or even walk down the street without hearing Carly Rae Jepsen’s atrocity. There I am, minding my own business on the way to class when a car full of bubbly sorority girls drives by with the volume of the song trumped only by their shrill screams.

If only the song were avoidable, then I could live in peace.

I hate onions, but they don’t creep up on me uninvited. I can simply ask a waiter not to let onions come anywhere near me and if he’s half competent, they won’t.

I assumed I’d at least be safe in class, away from the general public. In the outside world everything goes, but inside class there’s a sort of protocol: if you’re going to play music, use headphones. And of course, “Call Me Maybe” manages to bypass that societal norm. It has that much evil power.

As the sound waves penetrated my skull, courtesy of some girl’s laptop, I finally lost it and began to weigh the options inside my head.

“What would be easier?” I thought. “Ending my life right now or utterly obliterating this girl’s computer for having dared play this motherfucking song in my presence?”

I went with option C: complain. She wasn’t a fan of this and tried (poorly) to defend the song.

“It gets in your head and doesn’t go away,” she said, as if it were a redeemable quality.

And then the stars aligned, chance turned into opportunity and I came up with the perfect analogy.

“You know what else enters your body and won’t ever leave?” I asked. “Herpes.”

It wasn’t until the words left my mouth that I realized how parallel the two are.

Even though herpes is forever, it’s not always visible. The same goes for “Call Me Maybe.” It won’t always be on your mind, but it will always be waiting in the shadows of your subconscious. You could go a whole week without even thinking of the song, but all of the sudden it just pops up like a breakout.

“Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me, maybe?” you’ll find yourself reciting, possibly out loud.

And again like herpes, it’s very contagious. A passerby will hear you mumbling the lyrics and _boom_, they’re infected. You’ve spread the disease and doomed a poor soul for the rest of their life. They’ll go on to infect others and the problem will only get worse. Carly Rae Jepsen will become rich, but the world will become bleak.

So I ask you, noble readers, to take a stand. Let’s end this problem before it changes the world as we know and love it. Unlike Kony 2012, this is a cause you can actually make a difference with (plus, as your fearless leader, I won’t get caught masturbating in public).

Whenever you hear the song, scream violently. Scream, “Giving out your number isn’t even crazy! That’s how people meet!”

With your help, the world can become a better place.

Stop “Call Me Maybe” 2012.