February 4, 2013

Shame on me now.

Today, I read a poem about a telephone chord whose curls were tightly wound. 
And then, I felt like my own chords have been too tightly wound, and rightly so. 

They say there's a Taylor Swift song for every emotion. 
And though the scholarly side of me, the smart, deeper, more brilliant side, hates itself for doing this,
I'd like to revise such a statement:
There is a Taylor Swift song for every boy I have ever come across.
I have years and years as well as albums and lyrics of evidence based back up.

Today, I branded a boy with a song.
He wears wide-rimmed glasses, owns some of the best plaid shirts I've ever seen, and uses the word ravishing to describe the way I sometimes look. 
But he's dimple-challenged, would rather have dogs than babies, and hates sticky jam hands. 
So, we needn't say more than, "Next please!"

Am I doing a good job at hiding how sad I am about the whole ordeal?
I was hoping the T-Sweezy dub step would mask it. 
You tell me... effective?
The worst part is that I did it to myself. Again.


  1. I've had my fair share of boys like that. Find the one who likes sticky jam-hands and stick with him.

    And listen to a lot of T-Swift. Somehow she makes everything better. Her and ice cream.

  2. I agree. Find the boy who likes sticky jam hands. That's the one for you.

  3. oh T-swift. gotta love her. sorry about your ordeal.


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