My Day as Narrated by Taylor Swift’s 1989
9:00am—Alarm blares angrily. I don’t know if I can do this class thing.
I stay out too late. Got nothin’ in my brain.
9:19am—Wait it’s so warm out! I need to wear something summery. These days are numbered.
And I got that good girl fig and a tight little skirt.
10:00am— Got my math midterm back. Ouch.
Looking at it now…It all seems so simple.
10:01am— Text from my mom: “How’d the math midterm go (apprehensive emoji)?”
OoooohhhhhhOOHHHHHHHHH [melodic and emotionally charged wail]
12:11pm— Phew, she still hasn’t sent a follow-up text .
Are we in the clear yet are we in the clear yet are we in the clear yet in the clear yet GOOD.
12:27pm—The leaves are so pretty. I feel like I’m walking through a postcard from an arboretum gift store.
It’s a new soundtrack, I could dance to this beee-eat. The lights are so bright but they never blind me.
1:00pm— I have to meet that acquaintance for lunch because I said that I would. I don’t think we’ll have much to say to each other.
But I got a blank space baby. And I’ll write your name.
1:18pm—She brought up the time that I peed in the hallway of Bobb freshman year.
CAUSE BABY NOW WE GOT BAAAAAD BLOOD.
2:00pm—Someone messaged me on Tinder! He says: “Hey babe we matched lol. Your pretty cute.”
My one condition is: say you’ll remember me standing in a nice dress staring at the sunset, babe.
2:01pm— But he used the wrong “your.”
Love’s a fragile little flame. It could burn out.
2:02pm— I respond: “You’re*”
Cause darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream.
2:16pm— He says: “Fuck you bitch.”
Boys only want love if it’s torture.
4:00pm—Zumba.
I never miss a beat. I’m lightning on my feet. And that’s what they don’t see. Mmhhmmm.
5:07pm— Post-Zumba burrito.
Oh my god, look at that face. You look like my next mistake.
6:02pm—Group project meeting. No one has done shit for this class.
Hung my head as I lost the war. And the sky turned black like a perfect storm.
6:48pm—No toilet paper in the bathroom in Tech.
Shake it off. Shake it off.
7:38pm—A truly spectacular bike crash on the way home. I could really be the endearing heroine of a romantic comedy if I wasn’t so profoundly awkward.
And when we go crashing down, we come back every time. Cause we never go out of style. We never go out of style.
8:17pm— Dammit, all that’s left of my Skinny Pop are the tiny, crumbly, bottom-of-the-bag-remnants.
Hey. All you had to do was stay.
10:39pm—Fuck it, I’m watching Mad Men.
This is gonna take me down. He’s so tall, and handsome as hell. He’s so bad, but he does it so well.
12:47am—Bedtime.
ARE WE OUT OF THE WOODS YET ARE WE OUT OF THE WOOD YET ARE WE OUT OF THE WOODS YET ARE WE OUT OF THE WOODS?