Note: I am aware that this letter could never be as visceral or candid as your “Dear John” lyrics, but it will have to suffice as my “we’re- breaking-up” exposé.
Dear Taylor Swift,
Oh, what a perfect, beautiful American name. Paired with those royal blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and whitish blonde locks, your waif-like figure evokes imagery of our own flag. But if you think we're all foolish enough to let you sing our national anthem, you’re mistaken.
Ever since your seductively simple songs invaded the radio, you’ve worked so hard to position yourself as America’s sweetheart: a southern, simple, sober, smiling pin-up of a human. It must have felt gratifying to formally accept the position when you stated, in a 60 Minutes interview, you’d definitely consider yourself “a role model for impressionable young people.” Ironically, the only thing you perpetuated with that statement is self-aggrandizement.
You're on a mission to mold yourself into what you think the cookie-cutter version of a young woman should be. Consumed by maintaining a picture of yourself you designed in the dark, blinded by the limelight, you've become increasingly delusional. (Most recently evidenced by your public backlash against two of America’s actually iconic WOMEN, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, in a Vanity Fair interview—in true “Taylor” fashion.)
Your life is a show, and though we may be watching, we're tired of your endless attempts to make every episode akin to a fairytale. It’s unrealistic—we can’t relate.
What I’m trying to say is, I’d like to break up with you on behalf of America—especially my generation. You have never, and should not presume the notion that you will ever, be viewed as “the” 20-something-year old’s role model.
Swimming in Self-Pity
The first of my oh-so-swell memories of you was at the 2009 MTV Movie Awards when you won for Best Music Video— yes, the time Kanye West interrupted your sweet little acceptance speech to declare that “Beyonce had one of the best music videos ever.” POOR TAYLOR. America cried with you for the next few weeks, while you basked comfortably in self-pity—typical of your damsel-in-distress act. But no worries, because now America was definitely on your side.
Granted his attire consists of nearly 6,000 chains, belts, and other “fashionable” apparel (easily transformable into weaponry), YOU DON’T JUST STAND THERE! Grab that microphone back from Kanye’s hand (what kind of a name IS that, anyway?!) and tell him that we white women will no longer be disrespected by you "rappers!" OK, maybe not in those exact words, but you should have stood up for yourself. Instead, you acted sheepish and stunned and proceeded to revel in the aftermath of the media’s flowery support.
Your “iconic” actions spoke for themselves: Chose self-pity over self-defense.
Succumbing to Neediness
America was relishing the idea of "good-girl Taylor," which meant the media would pay close attention to your slew of romantic relationships from 2009—2012, including Taylor Lautner (TWILIGHT!!), Jake Gyllenhal (didn’t you meet for like, coffee twice? Scandalous), John Mayer (you crooned on one of his tracks and then whined because he didn’t fall for you), and…I forget the others.
One of your latest and greatest, feeble attempts to find a steady man was when you courted 17-year-old Conor Kennedy, a Massachusetts blue blood and descendant of arguably one of the most important political families in our country’s history.
During the late summer months, you pranced around Hyannisport in polka-dotted bikinis and staged photo opps on his yacht (seriously though, try some champagne or something). Your relationship wasn't even close to reaching its five-month mark when you plunked down $5 million on a house practically adjacent to the Kennedy's Cape Cod compound. Fortunately, for us Mass. residents, summer's conclusion did not give way to any "Dancing in September," and the house, much like you, would soon be on the market again.
When fall arrived, Conor headed back to prep school in western Mass., where he belongs, and you were left hitch-hiking back to Tennessee in your cowboy boots, where you belong…all the while having to digest that that you will never, ever belong to the Kennedy family.
Slippery Slope of Denial
This is when America started to get a kick out of your temperamental “love” episodes. Our amusement tested your character, and it led you to reveal your insecure, immature, and hostile nature.
So what, you got a little roasted at the 2013 Golden Globes by hosts Tina Fey and Amy Poehler when they warned you to “stay away from Michael J. Fox’s (YOUNG) son.” Your most tasteless move yet was to voice your public dismay in a backlash Vanity Fair interview and slam the hostesses for their remark, saying, “There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.”
Oh, the irony. Tina and Amy are two respectable, talented, witty, and wise ladies who have made incredible strides for women in their careers—you’ve done the opposite.
It’s time for you to you accept the fact that you can fall short of success, you are susceptible to public scrutiny, and you can’t always say nor do the right thing. No one can.
It is OK to fail; it’s OK to be a serial-dater; it’s OK to feel insecure; and it’s certainly OK to write about it. What is not OK is to try to disassociate yourself from this behavior, make excuses, or blame it on others.
‘Cause when it comes down to it, your imperfections are what inspires your art, and the struggles you experience help strengthen your character.
Seriously, though…
Can you please just TRY some things that we normal “young adults” in their 20s do?
Go out. Get reckless. Be careless. Act fearless. LIVE FREE.
We’re all unsure of ourselves, especially at this time in our lives. But there’s a hell of a lot of fun to be had trying to figure out what works and what doesn’t.
And you know what? If someone wants to make a joke about you along the way, it wouldn’t kill you to crack a smile. Nor would it kill them if you fired back with something just as sarcastic and jocular. Hell, you might even enjoy it.
Speaking of which…maybe there is a special place reserved for Tina and Amy dancing down there with the devil, Taylor. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’d much rather be partying and laughing in hell with those two than stuck in heaven with your sorry-self and country music.
P.S.— We are never, ever, EVER getting back together.
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