Imagine Taylor Swift invites me to her Reputation Secret Session listening party. i know that this means taylor’s read my blog, and she must know i’m not super happy with this album cycle. so i’m on my best behaviour, trying hard to be nice and not kill the joy of the fourteen-year-olds around me. we all sit down on her living room floor and chat for a while. it’s nice. taylor swift is nice. i’m starting to feel more relaxed, but i’m definitely still trying to keep the peace though. i tell her that fearless was a formative album for me and she thanks me and says it was so sweet of me to say that. taylor swift announces that she made snickerdoodles and she has to go pop them out of the oven. the fourteen-year-olds cheer, and as taylor walks away, they begin to talk amongst themselves. i happen to look up. the kitchen door is slightly ajar and taylor swift is staring at me through the thin crack, her eyes twin coals of searing, black hatred. i gasp a little. the fourteen-year-olds ask me what’s wrong. i say that nothing is wrong. taylor swift comes toward us with a tray of piping hot snickerdoodles and invites us all to take one. i decline and tell her i just ate. she insists that i take one. i tell her that i’m sorry but i’m really full and they smell delicious. she forcibly places a snickerdoodle in my hand. she tells me to eat it. there is no way i am going to eat this snickerdoodle because i am genuinely afraid that taylor swift will kill me. i am seriously afraid that taylor swift has put poison in this snickerdoodle and is trying to kill me. one of the fourteen-year-olds asks if the cookies are gluten-free. taylor swift’s mother andrea swift calls out from the kitchen to say that the cookies do, in fact, contain gluten. i loudly announce that i have celiac disease and then i toss the cookie into a nearby artisanal woven wastebasket while loudly announcing that nobody wants a cookie that has my germs all over it. taylor smiles at me. she says nothing. the fourteen-year-olds demand to finally hear Reputation and she presses play and the living room’s surround sound system begins to play the album. i am sweating. the fourteen-year-olds are having fun. we get to the part where she says “island breeze” in a caribbean accent. i visibly wince. taylor swift affects a friendly voice and asks me if i like the song. i tell her that i do. i announce that i have to go to the washroom. my thought is that i can walk down the main hallway and escape through the front door. taylor stands up and says she’ll walk me to the washroom. i say that it’s fine actually and i can hold my pee. taylor swift says that’s silly. she tugs at my arm until i stand up and then she very lightly holds my arm and guides me down the hallway, out of the view of the fourteen-year-olds. i am very scared. we reach the bathroom. taylor swift releases her hold on my arm. she looks very intently at my t-shirt. it’s an animal collective 2017 tour t-shirt. i got it when i went to an animal collective concert back in may. “i see you like animal collective,” she says. “please don’t kill me, taylor swift,” i reply. “there was VX nerve agent in that snickerdoodle,” taylor swift says. “oh my god,” i say, and i say, “taylor, please, i know i said the singles were bad, but that was only because i believe so much in your potential.” taylor swift levels her eyes at me. kubrick stare. “you’re seriously going to stand there,” she says, “wearing a t-shirt plastered with the cover art for painting with, and you’re going to tell me that my album is bad.” i am crying now. “floridada is a really fun song,” i whisper, through phlegm and tears. taylor swift’s eyes roll back into her head and an ancient voice echoes forth from her throat, intoning in latin: “Vos ipsi deceperunt me, quia novissima hora est.” somehow i die just from that.
