Scapegoats and Sacred Cows

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