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!"

Right?

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.