My Day as Narrated by Taylor Swift’s 1989

My Day as Narrated by Taylor Swift’s 1989

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Taylor-Swift-1989-Deluxe-2014-1200x1200 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?

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