American Idol has come to be one of the most necessary evils in my life. I loath it because it wastes countless hours of my time with the same manufactured content, and regardless of how much I swoon for one or two contestants each season, none of them ever go on to produce any music I’d actually go out of my way to listen to (save scanning the shower radio every morning for the station kind enough to be playing “Before He Cheats”). No, it does nothing but transfix me for almost half the year before leaving me scratching my head every May as the confetti falls on some genuinely talented but ultimately uninteresting sap singing the newest stinker in the growing pantheon of shockingly bad made-for-Idol singles. I vow never to put myself through it all again.

But summer passes, the leaves change, snow (or at least the threat of it) blankets the better part of our fair country and I find myself curious as to what different brand of crazy will be showcased during another round of auditions. It’s already too late. I’ve already latched on to a few pretty faces and once again sought comfort in Simon’s predictably snide remarks. It’s like trying to smoke socially after a few months on the wagon. I know it’s a bad idea, but it feels so good and familiar.

I’m hardly saying that I was suckered into watching last night’s premiere. I’ve known for over a month that I’d be walking into this trap willingly. As my ensuing coverage will likely prove, I’ll be nothing short of obsessed with American Idol for the duration of its seventh season. And I’m beginning to think it may always be that way. As long as the show more or less stays the same and the original players are on board, you will probably find me tuning in with eyes fixed in horror and wonder and my phone ready to go to bat for someone I’ll have discarded by the premiere of So You Think You Can Dance.