Dear Taylor Swift: I Think We Need to Take a Break

The 2015 VMAs was many things: A place for feuds to be settled, for beefs to erupt, for nips to slip, for surprise albums to be dropped, and for political ambitions to be declared. It was also an excuse for Taylor Swift to be her utmost Taylor Swifty—and for me to exercise my extraocular muscles (they’re responsible for eye rolls).

Showing up to the color bar carpet with NINE members of her #girlsquad, the pop star behaved like a caricature of her formerly endearing, ernest self the entire night. She “made friends” with brief foe Nicki MInaj onstage, danced awkwardly (during the Weeknd’s performance), tried to convince the world that she listened to rap music as a pre-teen, and squeezed Kim Kardashian’s shoulder throughout Kanye West’s 11-minute-long Video Vanguard Award acceptance speech. All my cringing led me to one conclusion: I need a break from Taylor Swift.

Let me just get this out of the way: I really, really like Taylor Swift. I’ve been a fan since the “Teardrops on My Guitar” days, when a country music-inclined college friend first played me the song and said, “I feel like you’d be into this!”

I laughed it off at first (I was more of an emo kid), but nine years later, my iTunes library includes all five of her albums, with her Jake Gyllenhaal-inspired opus “All Too Well” in heavy rotation as my go-to shower sing-along. I’ve wept to her songs about breaking up and growing up—even the one about Bobby and Ethel Kennedy, for reasons I’ll never understand—sung loud and triumphantly to her odes to singledom, and even learned how to play “Shake It Off” on the ukulele (proud moment, there).

I felt like I could relate to her—particularly, her love life (because god knows I can’t relate to her cash flow). I also adored her for what I saw as similarities between us. Sure, she had innumerable, sometimes embarrassing, crash-and-burn-y failed flings—just like I did—but she also had an unrelentingly positive outlook. She’d learn from her mistakes, write a song about it, and then move onto the next. We were two twenty-something New Yorkers, wandering down this road that we call liiiife… alone, together. Taylor Swift got me.

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So, even though I hardly ever looked at any celebs on Instagram, I started following her. She put up pictures and videos of her cats, her friends, her fans, her family—and I’d scroll past and occasionally like them, just as I did my own acquaintances’ posts. (Am I sounding like a weird, obsessive stalker? Promise I’m not.) And then, sometime this spring, she started sharing pics of her new boyfriend Calvin Harris. First, he was standing in her kitchen. Then they were together on a swan-shaped floatie. Then he was giving her a piggie back. And just like that, my FOMO kicked in.

Admittedly, I’m hugely susceptible and hugely sensitive to FOMO (that’s the fear of missing out). So, to try and deal with that, I’ve tailored my social media accounts to help me avoid seeing things that might trigger an episode. For me, that means hiding or unfollowing anyone who consistently posts about their incredible vacations, their perfect relationships, and their beautiful engagement rings (and subsequent “upgrades”) and weddings. (Other no-nos: Those who frequently post about diet pill/energy drink pyramid schemes, pets that need adoption around the country, and what size fruit/vegetable their fetus is this week.)

I tried to be happy for Taylor, as her photos of and with Harris became more frequent and cutesy. I really did. She deserves love, just like the rest of us do. But within a week of those first few pictures, I had no choice but to remove her from my feed. Sorry, Tay—it’s not personal.

But there was a problem: unlike the other people I’d removed from my line of social media vision, I couldn’t escape Swift. Because of what I do for work—that is, writing about fashion and celebrities and, apparently, my oftentimes depressing dating life—it’s part of my job to follow a million websites and news sources about pop culture on my Facebook and Twitter. And unfortunately, it seems like the more real-life people I’ve hidden from my feeds, the more Taylor Swift “news” there is.

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Do I need to know about how much Calvin Harris loves his girlfriend’s cats, or how many times he’s cat-sat for them? Or that time Swift told a crowd in Scotland that she loves Scottish people (ie Harris)? Or when they went on an adorable double date with Joe Jonas and Gigi Hadid (and Karlie Kloss) on that boat? Or when he said that she ticks boxes he didn’t know existed and is an incredible cook and human and then posted a picture of her grilling on the BBQ as PROOF and then later referred to her as “my girl” on Twitter? Or when she recently mouthed “I Love You” onstage in L.A. and everyone decided it was to HIM??????

NO. I do not.

As for the VMAs, I have no clue why Harris didn’t accompany his GF, as everyone predicted. Maybe he’s afraid to be in the same room as ex Rita Ora (whose career he allegedly sabotaged post-breakup), or maybe he just wanted to spend more time with those darn cats. But in an interesting turn of events, not even their lack of awards show PDA could make me warm to her Sunday night.

A couple of years ago, I downloaded some hilarious, very effective extension to my Facebook called Unbaby. I have no idea how it worked, but I configured it so that every time one of my friends posted a photo with a caption including baby-related words: Cute, adorable, baby, congratulations, etc—my Facebook would replace it with a picture of Alexa Chung. It may be time to attempt a re-download, but this time with some new nixed phrases—starting with ‘Taylor Swift,’ ‘Calvin Harris,’ and ‘Meredith and Olivia.’ (Yes, those last two are Taylor’s Scottish Folds.)

Because I hate to say it, Taylor Swift… but it’s ENOUGH already. I’m glad you’re happy. I wish you all the best. But I just think we need a little time apart. Make that, I need some time apart from YOU. I need to regroup; rediscover the things that matter to me. Learn to love myself from the inside out, without using you as my crutch.

Well… until your next album, that is.

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