An Exposé on Taylor Swift
This was probably not the best title, because the only time I hate on Taylor is when I want to be her. I’m not going to tear her apart— sorry pick-me girlies— I am actually going to do something completely unique and different instead, and talk about me. If you can’t tell by my previous post in tandem with this, I’m clearly going for a full-circle self-branding thing. My real fans get it.
For someone that asked an entire room to drop everything and watch the Grammy’s with me last night, my confession is I don't think I’ve ever actually seen it before. But I did make it my whole personality for a night. Something about people is that they LOVE to have extreme opinions on things that can’t actually offend anyone either way, namely: looks and designs. And I’m people. And for someone who could never design any kind of garment or choreograph anything beyond a preschool mermaid dance, I really had a lot of opinions. And for someone who used to pride herself in not becoming obsessed with celebrities, I do absolutely hate my sister right now because she said Miley Cyrus’ performance of “Flowers” was “ok,” rather than iconic and chill-inducing. Honorable mentions go to my boyfriend who had never heard of Victoria Monet, and to my father who has been calling SZA, “Saza.” They are both dead now, so I guess my former pride could subside.
But let’s get to Taylor. Did I expect her to announce Reputation TV tonight? Yes I did. Did I notice that the white bridal dress was an odd choice for the announcement we expected? Yes I did. And I feel a little stupid about the actual announcement, both for being wrong and for caring at all. But she is not stupid. She is evil and genius.
It is actually crazy that she can get every liberal adolescent, every I’m-a-cool-mom trying to relate to their daughter, and every teddy-bear father in the country to look at archived posts on Instagram, pay attention to seemingly normal numbers and random dates, and not only tolerate but actually expect self-promotions during acceptance speeches. Not to mention, the Super Bowl is now a political conspiracy (what the fuck), and the Britneys of the world are now finding out about Dead Poets Society for the first time by trying to Google the name of the next big pop album. All because of Taylor Swift.
I could’ve done all of that, though. HAHAHA. I could be Taylor Swift. I mean, it’s her writing that makes me love her so much. I can write AND sing, so. I can’t believe I just said that. What if we have a meet-cute one day at an afterparty? I have to erase that.
I could be Taylor Swift. I mean, I’m kind of doing my own Taylor’s Version right now. Deidre’s Version. It’s sheer genius— I’m capitalizing on myself, and by capitalizing I mean doing this for no pay but creating my own lore so that Netflix has a clear description ready for my special: “Bad luck with bartending. Uncomfortable habits at the laundromat. Deidre Lynn takes on post-grad life in New York City.”
I definitely have enough words in me to write as much as she does. Teeth from Boston’s most cataclysmic party and smurf eyes to make her run to the grave. I just thought of that. And I could have thought of eras. I mean come on. I’ve been choosing a color of the week for everything since I was in elementary school: markers, underwear, things I eat. And I could totally form a cult following. The number of exclamation points I put at the end of a sentence is NEVER random. Happy four year anniversary!!!! How about that? I could post something and say, “announcement coming soon!!” Bam. SECOND album. Simply put, I’m brilliant.
I could be a pop star and not have to worry about running out of toilet paper. I had a horrible day on Saturday. I could be famous and have toilet paper and also good days. But maybe I don’t want to be THAT famous, but like a Bo Burnham kind of famous, where 9 times out of 10, people walk past him unsuspecting, but then say, “hey, was that Bo Burnham?” But by the time they realize, he’s long gone and it’s too late. I’d want to be that kind of famous. It’s easier to have pimples that way and the dumb shit I’d inevitably say in interviews wouldn’t be made apparent to the whole world. But maybe I’d want the people walking by to be in an earshot so I could hear them realize. How would I know I’m that kind of famous otherwise? I could be a songwriter but actually I don’t have a love life to write about. Wait, sorry, I do. I just mean, it’s not interesting. Wait, sorry, it is. I just mean, um, fuck, how do I fix this— Alex you are just so awesome that you are not worth writing about! Um, fuck, I mean— no, really, I could write about the relatable parts of life like comfortable love, and perfect scrambled eggs, and handbags, and I could do it in a way that makes people really happy. But maybe I’d have to be happy to do that. Well, I am, am I? But wouldn’t I be happier if I were famous? Or is that just the money talking? Is money happiness? Is money everything? Is that the only reason I’m even having this dialogue for the 233023913th time on this blog? I am totally happy. And I could totally be famous, I could totally make THIS famous if I just worked on it every day. But I say that every day, and I lay instead. But I publish things! But only my dad reads them. And my dad was the only person who begged me to start this up again. Where are you beggars?! Why do people never beg for me, maybe it’s my hair, although multiple people complimented it but a different person told me I should have never gone dark to begin with even though this is literally my natural color, and I could’ve come up with dwindling mercurial high, I really could’ve if I just thought of it, and this world is so oversaturated, especially with white women who kind of do nothing and are just famous for it, and maybe I should just accept that and have nice tupperware, but I do know so much about Joe Alwyn and I obviously would not have if it weren’t for Miss Americana, and if I were really famous already, this referencing I’m doing to my own blogs would be so much more fun because you’d actually understand the way it feels in my head, but instead I think I am unfortunately attracted to myself, which is a step up but also a step in the wrong direction, and I just wrote a sentence about auditioning but I can’t even get into that right now so I erased it, but I have to get up at 5 tomorrow so I have to stop writing but I’m going to be thinking about Taylor Swift all night and how much I fucking hate how much I want to fuck and be her.
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Good news, my lawsuit is going through because I called that Fortnite was going to be in for 2024 long before she named the first song on her new album that.