I Am Officially Sick of Your Sh*t: An Open Letter to Taylor Swift
Dearest Princess Gumdrop Puppy Taint of Sugarplum Sweet Pea Island,
It’s amazing to think it now, but you emerged refreshing, albeit a Fresca-like refreshing of just this side of too sweet. And that was fine. Because to have a tween friendly singer-songwriter who knew her way around a guitar and could write her own music—really write her own music, not just her Stephanie Meyer unicorn poetry that a middle aged man would actually compose music behind—was nice. It made me happy that my grade school and high school aged cousins could have some musician to admire while they figured out how to have good taste down the road.
I even felt sorry for you when the Kanye West thing happened. I mean, he interrupted you, and it was basically like curb stomping a baby kitten. We were all of us Team Swifty Lou that night.
Somewhere between that VMA event and the next one, I became staunchly pro-Yeezy. What happened in that year?
You became annoying as fuck. That’s what happened. Your pretty princess schtick got old, and, now, you and me are fucking done professionally.
You are human diabetes. You are sugary hemorrhoids. You are pit gland syrup and you must be stopped.
The glitter guitars, the concert set that looks like the end of Enchanted, the fireworks, the ballgowns, the sparkle confetti rain, the fact that you wrote an entire song about that time that mean man interrupted you, it’s all just too much, Tayter. And, now, the news that you, YOU, will be playing Eponine in the film version of Les Miserables? You will be singing “On My Own” with the glycemic index of a Dunkin Donuts franchise while 13-year-old girls cry about how only you understand them?
I can’t. I CAN’T.
In a related story, there’s a pretty decent approximation of how she probably reacted to the news that she’d been offered the job:
Look, if you’re going to stick around, you need to be real. Because this shit? It’s fake. We all know it. You fucked John Mayer. Good girls don’t do that. I mean, dumb girls might, but at least the chick who banged Mayer and wrote a song about it sounds interesting.
This isn’t that kind of interesting. This is much more in line with a girl who “dated” Taylor Lautner as a PR move to prove he doesn’t like dick:
Like there’s a fairytale guy
And he whispers sweet lullabies
And the music plays from nowhere
As we dance in the pale moonlight
With candles and fireflies all night
Everybody thinks about love
I want love they haven’t thought of yet
Gag me with a crimping iron. That’s what Jennifer Love Hewitt vagazzles onto her pubic bone while crying into her Skinny Girl marg.
Do you know what you made me say yesterday, Taylor? You made me utter the words “it should have been Lea Michele.” DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT WAS LIKE FOR ME? It was a dark moment.
As the kind of person who spent a lot of time indoors as a child and spent early high school exclusively attracted to homosexuals, naturally, I very much like Les Mis. YOU ARE SHITTING ON IT. But it’s adorable shit, in the shape of Care Bears and tulips and that makes me so much madder.
You’re just so cute. I hate cute.
Quit it, bitch. Take that shit out of here. Or at least have the decency to get caught with coke, or let John Mayer stick you with his David Duke again. Give us something to cut the sweetness.
*sigh* No, don’t do the coke. You have a lot of young fans and it’s nice that you’ve stayed respectable where other starlets your age turn to suspicious bong substances and meth-diets (though, seriously, you’re not that naturally thin—your head looks enormous) and it would be heartbreaking for those kids if you chose to “go adult” in that way. But, come on. Something. And straightening your hair doesn’t count.
Honestly, T-Zone, the only course of action may be to show some boob. Talk to Annie Hathaway. I think she might get you more than you know.
And if not, there’s always homewrecking. That works, too. Make some calls.
Love, hugs, snuggleblossoms and other sickening shit,
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