I bought Kelly Clarkson's third album, My December, the day after it was released. I popped it into my laptop and sat for an hour, just listening. I took in the edgier rock songs, grimacing through some of the mediocre lyrics. I smiled through the softer, bluesy ballads that showcase her vulnerability, her sweet spot. When it was over, I made a quick but careful assessment: It is an uneven album dusted with incredibly beautiful patches of depth and sheer talent. It is a respectable first attempt at pushing musical boundaries and penning original material.

It is Kelly, and it is authentic.

It seems, however, that few others have given the album as fair a screening. Critics and members of the media had predetermined the fate of not only the album but also the original "American Idol" herself weeks before it hit stores. From hefty accusations that she has committed career suicide to petty declarations that she has let herself go physically, the venomous side of pop culture has more than reared its ugly head in this overblown battle against Clarkson - and it's really pathetic.

The Texan songstress aspired to write a darker and more personal collection of songs this time around and infamously went public with her feelings: "I just want people to hear [my album] instead of 100-year-old executives making decisions on what's good for pop radio," she told Reader's Digest. In the end, Clarkson won her way, but critics are subsequently anticipating the end of her career.

Quite frankly, My December is hardly a flop. Released on June 26, 2007, the album debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200, one spot higher than her Grammy-winning album Breakaway did in 2004. In one month, it has sold just shy of half a million albums. The album's first single, "Never Again," peaked at No. 5 on the Pop 100 Charts and at No. 8 on the Billboard Hot 100 Charts.

In my eyes, she is one of the few young celebrities who can't be broken down.

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