It's a well established fact that I'm a Taylor Swift fan. In the most delulu (short for delusional, for my over 40 audience; aka my parent's facebook friends) sense, I believe that her and I could be good friends. How else could she have written "Mirrorball" if not having taken a chunk out of my brain and spun it into a delightfully relatable song. If she's ever is looking for a friend who can't fall asleep without checking in their closet for monsters, I'm that girl. Speaking of, I'll be right back, gotta do something really quickly...
All of this to say, I'm super excited for the release of Speak Now (Taylor's Version) in exactly 35 minutes. So enthralled that I am currently fighting off the melatonin I took an hour ago. I had somehow forgotten that I was meant to be staying up until midnight. Classic Al. I can't let the melatonin win, even if I'm hallucinating sheep and my eyelids are blinking like they're made of concrete. I just can't afford to miss this monumental moment.
Speak Now reminds me of being 10 years old and going on car rides with my family. We would shove our CD into the disc player and make our parents listen to her album for the entirety of several long, long road trips. I was singing "Don't you think I was too young to be messed with? The girl in the dress wrote you a song. You should've known" like I had ever experienced a romantic relationship. It was never anything short of a full-fledged belting performance. My parent's were probably peering back through the rearview mirror with extreme second hand embarrassment.
There's something so comforting about a Taylor Swift midnight release. Across the world, however many Swifties exist, are going to be sobbing to Dear John by 12:04, and I think that's beautiful. I'm finding myself to be a little devastated about the potential change to the lyrics of Better than Revenge. I know that Taylor is probably aiming to show growth, but I hate growth, growth stinks! Just be a little pot-stirrer sometimes, history will forgive you. In all honesty, I know that Taylor could spoon feed me a vat of dirt and I would eat it right up. As long as she lets me hear 1989 (TV) in advance. Or acknowledges that I exist in any capacity.
The thing is, this melatonin is working overtime. But if I miss "When Emma Falls in Love," and have to hear from the Internet whether it's about Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield, I'll never forgive myself.
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