Lights Camera Bitch Smile

I didn’t intend to be awake to listen to “TTPD” when it was released.

But alas, as Thursday ebbed into Friday, I logged into Apple Music and was delighted to see it was ready for me at 11:50-ish.

Imagine my sleep-deprived delight when another 15 songs, the TTPD anthology edition, appeared in my account two hours later.

My plan was to take PTO Friday to drive to Tampa to see Kenny Chesney. But, as life happens, I didn’t see the possibility of being away for two to three days. So I sold my $260 ticket for $80 and worked.

I won’t claw back that time. It was rollover, anyway. And life has been so chaotic that I am sure I lost eight hours elsewhere throughout the week. At least.

I’ve done myself a disservice reading reviews and memes about TTPD/Anthology.

Now, I haven’t seen what the E-Gatsby of Greenacres has to say about it. I’m sure it’s a meh and a pooh-pooh and a Beyonce is better mashup, along with some missing apostrophes and extra commas.

In any event, I am not listening to anyone who isn’t a lifelong TS fan. The album was not meant for anyone but us. There are so many invisible strings and I am getting tired of drawing them for people who don’t get it.

I do owe myself a back-pat because I told my fellow Swiftie cousin that there was no way this was going to be a Joe diss album. We don’t hurt the ones we actually loved.

“It’s the worst men that I write best.”

We do relive those torrid (illicit) affairs. Whether we’re with them for one night or one fortnight (heh), they can produce even more searing pain than having your pretty and your youth wasted (for free).

I’m still processing that someone DID get taken to the cleaners and it was Ratty.

Which, I am having some issues now affiliating my beloved “Maroon” from “Midnights” (“The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones / The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon”) with Matty (“So if I sell my apartment / And you have some kids with an internet starlet / Will that make your memory fade from this scarlet maroon?”).

For example.

Taylor makes it clear that we’re all vipers who stole her fun. We put her on a pedestal she didn’t ask to be on and tell her how to be.

Actually, I figure the dating pool where I am is so shallow, and she’s got her pick of everyone in the world, why go for a greaseball. But, I also GET it. The one they’d never put you with, can make so much sense at the time.

Also I have decided to stop clowning the release of Reputation (Taylor’s Version). It’s exhausting. And she seems to think we don’t appreciate all she gives us. Like a whole ass surprise double album, for starters.

I will just sit here in my custom Big Rep mouse ears, and knowing that there will (again) be no explanation before RepTV.

I got these on TTPD day. I won the Great War! (Uh huh)

The gold bow I chose is a big IYKYK.

Not to be confused with YOYOK.

Anyway.

I worry that Travis is the rebound, rather than Rat Mat. That big, goofy golden doodle who knows he hit the situationship jackpot. Like, how does he feel when he listens to 2 hours and 2 minutes (Good job, Blondie) and only two songs and mayyyybe one minute of another are for him?

Anyway. I wish I could reach out to Tay-Tay and say thank you for baring your soul and your teeth (yes, the ones we took away. I get the metaphor).

And that’s really what it’s all about. She is all about the allusions and metaphors and stories and myths and legends. She loves a good Easter egg and she loves an invisible string even better.

I see you, Taylor.

I just wish I could have stuck with my writing and become a better storyteller. Having friends like Jack and Aaron wouldn’t hurt, either. I only dated one writer but we never got around to writing.

Anyway, I love the album(s) and I envy anyone who gets to hear select songs live during the “surprise” section of her Eras Tour sets.

And don’t think I won’t be using some of my favorite lines as post titles and themes. Like this one. Which I plan to use again when I can talk about WHY I am not in Tampa this weekend. Or why we haven’t slept in months.

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