Complete Randomness

I Got A Fever for TS
Okay, I've got a confession.

I've been carrying this around with me for a while, and it wasn't until I was at the gym the other day that it really kinda took over - and I decided I needed to come clean.

And once I say it, I may forever look different in your eyes.

But I can't pretend it's not part of me anymore.

So here goes.

*Sharp inhale*

I like Taylor Swift.

I know! I know!

*crumples into a ball on the floor, pounding it with fists*

Trust me - I've read all the same musical criticisms of her - her lyrics are childish, she can't sing, she's too sweet, yada, yada, yada.

But it's for all these reason that I find myself loving her.

I mean, I have a 10-year old niece. She's got pictures of the Swiftness on her walls. But she also requested the song "Disco Stick" by Lady Gaga to be played at my wedding (declined).

I would MUCH rather my niece to be bopping around her room listening to the Swiftness bubbly singing about wearing tee-shirts and gyms shoes and flowers on front porches and Romeo and Juliet scenarios than to be harping about taking rides on disco sticks, love not being fun if it isn't rough, smoking cigarettes, and whathaveyou.

(Side not: Is it me or is the word "whathaveyou" one of the top ten signs you have become your parents? Also joining it on the list is the question, "How do parents let their daughter leave the house in that outfit?" and anything about the weather).

And I don't care that her song lyrics sound like they were written by me at age 10 - in fact, that's part of the draw. They are sweet, and for me - they bring me back to the days when I did believe in Prince Charming, and better lifes, and growing up.

In fact, I am pretty sure that Switfy doesn't actually write her songs like she says (this, by the way, is a long-standing argument between my "Team Taylor-Swift-is Hawt-Piece-of-Ass" husband who believes she does, and my "Team Taylor-Swift-is-a-Phony-Fraud" brother-in-law, who doesn't). Frankly, I don't really care if her songs are written by her or a 40-year-old single woman with questionable personal hygeine wearing a howling wolf tee-shirt while watching "Eclipse" on repeat and singing to her Robert Patterson posters while dancing with her cats.

But I digress.

I like that she has a somewhat sweet image (she makes heart signs with her hands!), she is usually fully dressed when out in public and she hasn't yet been caught making out with bongs a la Miley Cyrus.

In fact, here is the most recent addition to my playlist. This was the song that gave me my moment of clarity:




See? Who can't relate to a childhood experience in which they were bullied? I can - in fact, I still remember the names and comments of my bullies. But I like the song because it's also really hopeful. Yeah, the lyrics are simple and cheesy, and the music isn't exactly Beethoven, but who cares? I like belting it out at the top of my lungs in the car.

And I would far prefer my niece value Swifttastic and her "Little House on the Prairie" frocks:



than Miley Cyrus's 18th birthday leather get-up:



Or Katy Perry with fireworks shooting out of her boobies.



And sure - in a few years she may find herself living the life of a coked-out whore that's been used, abused and spit out by the industry, wandering the streets of downtown Nashville and playing her guitar in front of Joe's Crab Shack for spare change, wondering what the hell happened to her life.

But in the meantime, I rather fancy her happy little bouncy songs.


Who Let the Dogs Out? Who? Who? Who?
And for today's edition of "WTF," I offer this:



I know - you're speechless. Did ya watch to the end to see those two college guys really getting into the granny action? Now this is the REAL Cougar Town. Gertrude's showing all the other young college bitches how to bring the boys to the yard.

I imagine the only thing more humiliating to her grandkids is her choice in footwear.


Is This, Like, an NFL Version of "The Beiber?"
Dear Tom Brady:
Ummmm...no.


I'm not talking about your smokin' hot wife whose body makes me weep for the unfairness of genetics.

This beef's about what's happening up there on top of your head.

Did you lose a bet? Is Giselle forcing you to play out some weird warrior/caveman dude fetish?

Missing ye ol' college days, perhaps?

Whatever. I don't care.

Just get yourself to a barber, k?

It's so bad it's actually making your wife less attractive, and that's the true crime here.

You're welcome.

Love,
Me