Taylor Swift- "Mean"

My 16-year-old sister thinks I'm a dork. My girlfriend won't talk to me. My parents would have preferred it if I had came out... as a Tufts Quidditch player. In a Northeasten liberal-arts school, there is nothing more embarrassing than what I am about to say, but I love Taylor Swift. I love Taylor Swift. I love Taylor Swift.

In fact, it turns out that there is something more embarrassing that liking Taylor Swift: writing about her on a music blog dedicated to exposing the general Tufts community to interesting new bands.

It is the equivalent of being in the midst of a discussion about ice cream and saying, "Hey guys, have you ever heard of this new flavor, vanilla?" Taylor Swift is the Wal-Mart of pop music. She is Lebron James, Oprah, Pepsi. My mother has heard of her.

But I don't care. I don't care if she doesn't sample Funkadelic, or doesn't channel '60's Polish girl groups with bhangra influences, or if she beefs with Ye. I love her. She is evocative, writes great hooks, and her voice strains and leaps, trudges and breathes into my ear.

She gives me ovaries and pimples and sends my hormonal levels to shit and replaces my sweater with a training bra and makes me a 14-year-old girl who wants a boy and I fucking love it. So suck one, 90% of my friends and 100% of my better judgement. Here's "Mean."

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