No, you did not see the psychosexual album cover; move on. Blechdom needs to move on likewise from her Fisher Price-made synth presets and ditties that were once amusing five years ago. Eat My Heart Out is basically a set of ballads from a lovesick and fetal-positioned soul. As irony barely excuses bad art these days, the Hallmark-quality poetry and the tacky Nickelodeon pop do not muster-although the Mr. Rogers chimes that begin “Torture Chamber” are amusing. “It‘s funny, being yourself is making a joke itself,” Kevin utters to herself at one point. Indeed.