An open letter to Taylor Swift from someone who’s never listened to one of her songs in its entirety

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Dear Taylor Swift,

Oh, honey. You need a cuddle and then a punch square in the boob, don’t you? You’re a little cutie and you’re always donning fabulous dresses, but you don’t fool me one bit, you little minx. You’re almost 23 years old now, sweetie.  You can’t keep writing songs about every boy you choose to doink and pretending like he broke your heart. If your heart keeps getting broken that easily and repeatedly, you’re an idiot, and I don’t think you are.

Idiot or not, you have to learn to push those emotions deep down into your gut. Learn to fester, sister! Develop your inner darkness. This cutesy girl in jammies and faux nerd glasses for all your videos (I watch Entertainment Tonight) isn’t endearing anymore. Really, shouldn’t you have a drinking problem by now? I’m not saying go full-on Lindsay Lohan, but you need a certain amount of shit for fertilizer and you’re not allowing anything to sit around long enough to rot.

Am I making sense to you, Taylor? You’re obviously a little bit of a nutjob. You wrote a song publicly admitting a fling with John Mayer. I mean, eww. Come on. I agree that he’s a talented musician, but come on, really? Grody. You did not have to admit that, girl. You’ve got to learn to hold back. Push it down and fester. Fester, fester, fester! You’ll stop shitting rainbows and become better for it.

Sincerely,

Someone you’ve never met who doesn’t listen to your music

Things to do when you’re trying not to think about that one thing:

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  1. Sit in a funky wicker chair and relax. Of course, if you stay in the same chair long enough the world  will march past slowly like a line of ants.  You’ll see chunks of cheese on antennae and you’ll grow hungry. So prepare a snack if you choose this option.
  2. Organize your life synesthetically. For example, piles of white paper smell like velvet so they should be stowed with everything that feels like purple.
  3. Invite your friends over to drink wine. Write down their phrases that sound dirty out of context and promise to arrange them into a blog post. Type them into your word processor and giggle, all the while with no idea how to arrange them into anything that other people will find amusing.
  4. Take up scrapbooking but with your very own special twist. Keep scrapbooks of serial killers and convince your friends you suffer from hybristophilia. You’ll be the talk of the town before you know it, and your won’t have time to dwell on that thing anymore.
  5. Express your feelings in shoebox diorama form. Helpful hints: use gray tissue paper to articulate sadness, and hide your dioramas under your bed so your family doesn’t have you committed.

A box for you

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I built a new box in my head today. I hope you like it. It’s bigger than the one you had this morning. You deserved a better box. Simple yet sparkly like frost on the grass first thing in the morning.

You see, though my physical life is very chaotic, lots of piles and stuff that doesn’t belong with other stuff, I like to keep my brain compartmentalized. If you want you can have a pillow in your box, maybe a blanket. But I don’t think you should have books. That would muddle things. I have to keep my own books in my head and your box doesn’t have room.

There was a twitch in my side when I walked on the sidewalk today. I told you about it but you were napping in your box. I really must get you that pillow. You looked uncomfortable. It was selfish of me to dwell on a twitch in my side when you were napping in a box with no pillow or blanket. Is this what narcissism feels like?

A brick wall & a mountain

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Shall we share a cup of tea on the edge of the mountain? You know the one. It’s just on the other side of the brick wall. The bricks are sealed with crushed bones and milk and if we start chipping at them now the wall will tumble before we’re old.

The mountain isn’t too tall. It’s more of a hill, really, but with delusions of grandeur more proud than you’ll ever know. The mountain needs us there. If we don’t chip away at the bricks the proud hill mountain will suffer from our selfishness.

Am I getting through to you? I feel like you’re not listening. You’re thinking about that thing again. The thing that keeps you awake at night, staring at the ceiling and listening to your partner’s deep breathing when all you want is a perfect silence that doesn’t exist in real life. If you’d just focus on the bricks and the mountain and the crushed bones that only we can remove, maybe your perfect silence would find you.

What I’m thinking about right now

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Whenever I talk about someone I know who has passed away, I really want to say “but I didn’t kill him/her”. It’s this urge I have to fight, this strange inappropriateness that tempts me like wearing striped thigh highs with mini-skirts in the present, not in 1994 when that was acceptable.

If I get a great song stuck in my head, life is good for days on end and I think happy thoughts for all of mankind. If I get an awful song stuck in my head, I wish harm upon others. This is why I don’t allow kid music in the car. Give me a towel, Mr. Tangerine Speedo.

When I see someone eating a slice of pizza like it’s a taco (i.e. folded up), I have to repress the urge to bitch-slap that person. You’re eating pizza, not a taco. If you want a taco, get a taco. You don’t have to get the pizza in your mouth faster by pretending it’s a different food.

When I think about the times I’ve been a bad friend, I feel like I could cry until my eyes stopped functioning as eyes, and served only as squishy marbles.

Almost every day, I have to stop myself from approaching a stranger and pretending to know him/her. I want to throw my arms around the stranger. “Hey! How are you? I’ve missed you. How long has it been?” Just to see what the reaction will be. I kind of think most of them would play along. No one wants to be the jerk.