#where everything else on that said dark ride is just a looping screen or fake flora

[cookie-dough-writes]

Hm it really sucks that entertainment and especially "immersive" entertainment is rapidly going down hill in quality because the people who are in charge are being as stingy as possible, despite society leaning more heavily into fantasy and escapism every day

[fragmentwitch]

Posting this because it's been sitting in my drafts and we're on Tatariakashi-hen so I wanna get ahead and just repost what I had up on reddit with more coherence.

spoilers for Gou and Saikoroshihen below.

In the post-Matsuribayashi world, the last time we see our kids is Rika and friends in a minivan going to Angel Mort where Shion is waiting. Satoko asks for them to go ahead without her; which seems odd because how else is she going to Okinomiya? I can presume that she either asks Irie for a ride or uses the Hinamizawa bus stop though.

But she wandered into the ritual tool storehouse and found a horn that fell out of the Oyashiro statue that presumably is Eua's vessel. And then things kick off with Satoko's descent into hell.

So this might just be me but while watching Sotsu, I have been getting HUGE Saikoroshi vibes from Satoko's Looper journey because we don't explicitly see her die on-screen when Eua uses her magic. And I want to approach this narrative divorced from Umineko since I'm still a fencesitter about how much is canonly tied to Umineko and not just "haha hidden easter egg go brrrr".

It's possible I read a mistranslated version because I watched a youtube playthrough that sometimes had errors in grammar, but Hanyuu put Rika in a similar situation in order to 'purge Rika of her sins', which presumably has to be the Frederica Bernkastel persona or Dark Rika. Hanyuu deliberately orchestrated every parameter of that dream (I know Rika says it definitely wasn't, but it ended up as nothing more than that due to her decision) and purposely excluded herself from that world so Rika would be forced to make a choice on her own; either return to 'her' miracle world that was stained by sins through committing a sin of her own, or make the best of an unfamiliar sinless world. If she chose the sinless world (which I believe was the choice she made before Hanyuu made her think she actually killed her mother to return... feel free to correct me) she would sin by allowing a world where everybody worked so hard to achieve dissolve into oblivion and become nothing more than a dream. Choosing her world would require an act of Matricide since she had failed to value her parents in the times she was able to go back that far. Regardless of her feelings, she didn't have much certainty because it would be the last loop. And she didn't really learn to value how precious life is until then; in the grand scheme of things, many people died in unfortunate accidents like that all the time and wouldn't have a goddess to put them in the next world in hopes of a better ending.

Technically she didn't ask to become a Looper but Satoko is given these choices but things are switched: either she makes the best of her sinless world (Matsuribayashi is really a world cleansed of sins) and accepts the painful parts of that reality, or she stains these new worlds with sins to create her certain perfect world. Without Hanyuu there is no real Hinamizawa Syndrome and each loop Satoko did always started off after Takano's defeat.

It's a choice she makes with almost complete self-awareness aside from her dismissing every world she destroys as simply a dream.

To get a miracle world, Rika was tasked with preventing any more sins from taking place while Satoko has to taint any number of sinless fragments for an indeterminate amount of loops (or until Rika gives up). I think it's deliberate that we haven't been given any on screen hints that Saikoroshi ever happened so far, because it comes right after Matsuribayashi.

And for what Eua has chosen to tell Satoko, she hasn't indicated at all so far if she also sent Rika back in time with the others. From the chandelier scene on, I have had a gut feeling that she's actually been chasing after the wrong Rika this whole time. Eua never said she also sent Matsuribayashi Rika back into the endless June (or rewinded back time... she most likely jumped fragments), and that would explain why Hanyuu is just a husk; the original one went to sleep in the prime world where the club are all on their way to angel mort with 'our' Rika. This Hanyuu could either be Eua's creation or a remnant from all the times Rika has transferred her consciousness into a new world and taken that Hanyuu's place.

Satoko might wake up from what was a terrible nightmare, and she comes clean to Rika about everything bottled up inside and they actually resolve things without anger or violence. Thus purging the sins she accrued (even if she doesnt do them in reality, they are a malevolent manifestation borne from her emotional turmoil levied at Rika).

Or she might not. Depends on whether you pick 'fantasy' or 'reality'. Suppose this isn't all a hellish nightmare Satoko is having.

In Tataridamashi, it really did seem for a second that both anime AND manga, Satoko contemplated staying in that fragment but only because she chose Keiichi. She calls him Nii-nii, blushing, even wearing an outfit just for him. She stopped clinging to Rika just like she stopped clinging to Satoshi and jumped for Keiichi. Her Prince on a White Horse.

Except I think she realized this alternative happiness far too late into the fragment. Satoko controls who gets the Syndrome but not how it affects them or who they kill specifically.

Judging from the sound of bells and Teppei's glowing red eyes, I'm pretty sure by now Ryukishi lied about Ooishi "naturally" going L5 and attacking the festivalgoers. I think Satoko injected Ooishi, perhaps another one of her experimentation ideas (TAKANO JUNIOR). Satoko was so focused on resetting loops to trap Rika that she never considered the possibility of any external factor changing her mind.

Keiichi's efforts to save her from Teppei (despite her faking it most likely) made her realize she had deceived her friends' trust due to seeing the previous fragments. Keiichi promises to never abandon his friends. Satoko, just this once, lets her heart open up to those words. Except... she can't have a truly perfect ending because things have progressed past the point of return. Satoko never bothered to protect anybody but this time, just like Mion, she decided to spare Keiichi.

The only way to do it is lock him inside the house, and keep the lights off so nobody thinks someone is in there. I don't think she intended to kill Keiichi, especially didn't expect Teppei to come out and nearly kill him. She looked genuinely shocked.

Which says to me that Eua did it. Satoko's seemingly abandoning her original goal that prefaced granting her Looper abilities. She promised all her friends that once Rika was convinced to stay in Hinamizawa, they'd all have a perfect world. So by choosing to spare only Keiichi and letting the rest die in collateral damage, she's betraying them and forsaken them and the original goal.

I doubt Eua has any morals, but if she's the ruler of these fragments and not Hanyuu, having her miko run around disobeying continuity is going to be troublesome to deal with. (Notice that Eua places great emphasis on Hinamizawa Syndrome being real and Rika being a Queen carrier) She might have a hand in driving Satoko's will to break down and culminate into the gutting scene.

[flatstarcarcosa]

danger & dread (pt. 1)

summary: The most important thing in Van’s life is control, and having it. When their life starts falling apart, they and Slade both have to deal with the fact that emotional intimacy is a vastly different beast than psychical intimacy. Slade has to decide if he’s planning for a fling, or something else. Bill remains dubious of his intentions.  word count: 5521, split into 3 parts warnings: abuse, violence, alcohol, smoking,

part two || part three

----------------

    “Behave out there, we don't want you to think this a hotel.” The cop behind the desk laughs at his own joke as Van finishes signing a stack of paperwork. He passes them their belongings they'd been booked with, and offers a wave as they head towards the door.     “Fucking jackass,” they mutter, ripping into the plastic containing their cellphone and wallet. As if on cue, a black dualley screeches to a halt in front of them, the passenger door swinging open.     “Please tell me you thought to get me a pack of--” Van stops mid-sentence as Slade holds up a fresh pack of Marlboro's. They climb into the seat and slam the door behind them, plucking the cigarettes from his hand.     “Thanks,” they say, clipping their seat belt as Slade loops through the county jail parking lot and back to the exit.     “Why didn't you call me sooner? I was wondering where you were and it wasn't until I stopped by your house that your nosy neighbor filled me in,” he says, holding out a lighter. He waits for Van to light their cigarette before reaching across and plucking it out of their mouth to slide it in his own. They scoff and grab another.    “I couldn't remember your number,” they say.     “You know, back in my day, we had these things called phone books,” Slade says, changing his blinker from right to left as he changes lanes. “I hear cellphones have a similar thing.” 

    “It took me ten months to be able to remember my own number all right,” Van snaps, “I had a bit of other shit on my mind, give me a fucking break.”     Slade stays silent as the truck rolls towards a red light.     “Fair enough,” he says, tapping ash into the tray. “What about your mom? I doubt she has a dashing benefactor waiting to bail her out.”     “She's got Lew,” Van says.     “I thought Lew was in Texas?”     “She is,” they say, shrugging. “Let them figure it out. Fuck it, I need a few days of not getting my face beat in to pack my shit and move, anyway.”     “Why did they arrest you, anyway?” Slade asks in place of the obvious question of where are you going to go? Van's lip curls.     “Because cops are useless fucks at best and I should have known better than to call them,” they say.    Silence.     The cigarette smoke seems to ride on it, swirling around the cab of the truck and leaving a haze. Slade rolls his window down a crack to let it air out, extinguishing his own in the ash tray.     “Why did you?” he finally asks. Van groans, leaning back in the seat.     “Because my stupid fucking friend talked me into it! I told her I don't fucking trust cops and that I've never had a good experience with them and she was all 'oh I was in the same position and it worked out for me!' fucking lying fucking--” they choke back the urge to scream, instead inhaling deep enough that the rest of their cigarette turns to ash and falls off into their lap.     “Fuck,” they mumble, patting at the small embers.     “You could've called me,” Slade says softly. In fact, he can't figure out why they didn't. Van found out who—and what—he really is months ago, and they were the one who made the argument that they still wanted to be in a relationship anyway, despite Slade's hesitance. Them not calling him for help with something so serious going on both concerns and confuses him.     “Yeah full offense, but,” Van says, “last time you had a family blow-up, you faked your death and moved here, and then oh, proceeded to lie to me about who you were for a year and a half! I'm sorry that 'call Slade' wasn't my first instinct!”     Slade's grip on the steering wheel tightens, and he ignores an aggravated honk from the car behind him as he realizes he's almost driven by the turn for Van's neighborhood. He says nothing, knowing well enough that anything coming out of his mouth right now will just make the situation worse. Van deflates and pinches the bridge of their nose.    “Look,” they say, “it's been a shitty four days. I want to go home, I want to check on my dog, and I want to take a shower that's not in the middle of a room housing 16 people. All right?”    “Yes,” Slade says. He pulls into Van's driveway, parking behind their car. They've hopped out of the truck before he's turned the engine off and are unlocking their door by the time he's closing his. Their dog shoots into the driveway, stopping in the front yard to hike his leg and growl at Slade as he enters the house.     “Rufus, enough,” Van says, snapping their fingers. Rufus obeys, running back in and planting himself at their heels. Slade squats down and holds out a hand, letting the dog cautiously sniff his fingers. His body language changes almost immediately as he trots over and plops his head on Slade's thigh.     “You don't see me for a couple of weeks and you forget about me, huh?” he asks, scratching Rufus behind the ears before standing up. Memory jogged, the dog decides his new spot to be is right at his heels, and he trots happily behind him down the hallway. The living room reeks of cheap vodka, and one of the easy chairs is tipped over. Van digs through a pile of clothing perched on a rocking chair, tossing unneeded items over their shoulder.     “I'm gonna take a shower,” they say, balling clothes up in a towel. “Can you feed him for me?”  Van slams the door to their bedroom shut before Slade can answer. Rufus whines.    “Hungry, boy?” he asks looking down. Rufus whines again, tail wagging slowly. Everything falling apart around him, and all he's aware of is that at least one of these humans is going to feed him, and now his main human is home again, and the house isn't dark any more!     Oh, to have such a simple understanding of the world.     Van spends forty five minutes in the shower. In that time Slade feeds the dog, lets the dog out, washes the dog's bowls, and smokes four cigarettes. He's rinsing his mouth at the kitchen sink, the foul aftertaste reminding him why he quit in the first place when Van opens their door. The stop in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and the other holding their cellphone to their ear.     “I'm not asking you to not bail her out at all,” they say, “I'm just asking you to wait a few days.... I don't know, Lew, lie about it!” They jerk the door shut. Slade leans on the kitchen counter.     “Because I need time to get my shit and get out,” Van says, snatching the cigarettes and lighting up. “Well if she doesn't want me to leave, she should have thought of that before going on a drunken bender, threatening to kill me, and beating my fucking face in because I said I was going to leave!”     They tap the cigarette against the ash tray and stick it back in their mouth, drumming the fingers of their free hand on the table.     “Her complaint about me not having a job right now isn't valid, unless we're all just ignoring that I quit that job because I was pissing blood.” Van grinds their teeth as they listen, rolling the cigarette to the other side of their mouth. “Then I guess I'll be fucking homeless! I don't give a fuck! Fuck you, fuck her, and tell her if she wants to try and make more of an issue about the car she can fucking sue me like my father is!”     There's an audible clak as Van tosses their phone onto the table. The noise causes Rufus to whine again and stick his head between Slade's calves. He moves him gently with a foot, glancing down as he speaks.     “What's your plan?” he asks, because he knows Van always has one.     “Get my shit and go,” they say. “Apparently Lew is paying mom's bail, they're gonna process her out in the morning. So whatever I'm doing, I have like 10 hours to do it. Which means anything I can't shove in my car might as well get set on fire right now, because she'll trash it all.”     Van pauses, taking in a breath and running a hand through their damp hair. “Fuck it, it's only stuff.”     “Are you staying with anyone?” Slade asks. At this point he's actively attempting to steer the conversation where he wants it.     “I was in the process of getting a hotel when I had to call the cops,” they say. They turn towards the living room, taking stock of what items are theirs, and what of those should be taken. Slade calls their name to regain their attention, and they either don't hear him or they're ignoring him. He sighs and steps around the counter, reaching out to put a hand on their shoulder.     “What god damn it?!” they snap, recoiling away from his touch. They've got an arm half raised in front of them, and for a brief moment Slade watches a deep-seated and uncontrolled fear flash in their eyes. He brings his hand back and holds them both up in plain view.     “Calm down,” he says softly. “You're over thinking.”     “I have ten hours to pack my fucking car and find somewhere else to go,” they snarl, “no, I don't think I fucking am!”     Whatever dam Van has built up to keep themselves functional is starting to crack along the edges. It's understandable, considering the last handful of days.     “So, what are you going to do?” Slade asks, crossing his arms. Van tangles a hand in their hair, tugging at it slightly and staring around the room with hazy eyes.     “I'm...gonna finish packing the tote I was packing when the cops showed up,” they say. Slade sighs.     “No, I meant after you get your shit together,” he says. “Where are you going to go? Who are you going to stay with? You can't stay in a hotel forever.”     “I-I have some friends, I'm just waiting to hear back.” Van picks their phone up and taps the screen.     “These the same friends that convinced you, against your better judgment, to call the cops, which resulted in you getting arrested despite being the one who got beat?” Slade asks pointedly. The hand holding their phone begins to shake, and right as he realizes that was too much and that he's pushing too hard, Van lets out an angry scream and tosses the phone. He launches himself across the room, managing to catch it just before it shatters on the floor.     “I don't fucking know!” Van yells. Both their hands are in their hair now, tugging enough to be painful. “For once in my fucking life I don't fucking know what I'm going to do or what I should be doing, or what the best idea is, okay! So fucking sue me!!”     Slade sets the phone back on the table, making sure to move slowly and measured. He notices the dog hiding under a chair cowering and shaking, and he squats down to extend a hand. Rufus bumps his nose against his fingers, staring up at him with wide eyes.     “It's all right, buddy,” he says, rubbing the top of his head with a finger. “You're a good boy.” Van lets out another scream, turning and kicking the coffee table. The fake plaster board serving as wood break apart with a loud crack.     Shit, Slade thinks, well, so much for the dam.    “I can't fucking do it anymore,” Van yells. “I don't have anything left! The tank is fucking EMPTY. I give and I give and I give and I fucking give and it's never enough! Nothing I ever do counts for fucking shit! Everything that ever goes wrong in everyone else's life is always my fucking fault, and I'm fucking tired of constantly getting my goddamned teeth knocked down my mother fucking throat!”     “Van,” Slade snaps. “Come here.” They don't turn to face him. Their arms stay down by their sides with their fists clenching and unclenching. He takes a few steps forward, boots silent on the carpet.     “I'm so fucking tired,” Van whispers.     “I know,” he says. He dares to put his hands on their shoulders, and although they tense up beneath him, they don't jerk away like last time. He takes that as a good sign and turns them to face him. When they don't raise their head he cups their chin, his thumb brushing against the bruise on their cheek. Van presses the palms of their hands over their eyes, face scrunching and flushing and their jaw setting itself tight.     As tired and strung out as they are, and they're still fighting furiously to plug the dam. Something in him switches on, something similar to the raging desire he had to protect them when his identity got outed months ago, yet different. Back then, the desire was mostly for selfish reasons; he didn't want to be responsible for someone that had no involvement in that part of his life dying because of it. A small part of it was because of the fondness and the rapport he's built with them, sure, but even that's rooted in his own innate egotism.  He's not sure how to put this new feeling into words, so he brushes it aside. That's something to worry about later, when there's less pressing matters in front of him.

[pettyandprettyblog-blog]

Let’s Talk About Taylor Swift

It’s about time we talked about the fake, money-grubbing, white supremacist, anti-feminist, Katy-Kim-Kanye-Clavin-John-Jake-Nicki-Spotify-Apple fighting, man-eating, snake, sheep, selfish bitch, (did I miss any descriptors?) that is more commonly known as Taylor Swift.  What’s that, you say?  You’re sick of hearing about her?  You’re tired of seeing her fake face all over social media?  Oh, honey.  I’m sorry, but she is just getting started and I am so here for it.  Allow me tell you exactly why.

Personally, I was never a huge Swiftie or “stan” (I literally just Googled what “stan” meant.  It means overly obsessive fan if you wanted to know), but I always listened to her music.  In eighth grade, when the Fearless album came out, of course I listened!  “You Belong With Me”, “Love Story”, “Fifteen”--those songs spoke to me as a fresh adolescent, ready to embrace the world of social mayhem one mismatched converse shoe at a time.  The boy you liked but never liked you back, the boy you loved and knew you were going to marry, the blind hope that your freshmen year of high school would be charming and romantic and pure and lovely and not just awkward and disappointing (SURPRISE!! No one escapes the fresh hell that is the first year of high school).

But I digress.

The Old Taylor Swift, I guess that’s what people are calling her now, could tap into your soul.  She somehow knew what you were suffering through and could sense your deepest dreams and desires.  Even those of us who weren’t “stans” could be caught singing along to “Mine” during the car ride to the movie theater with the girls and Kayla’s mom in the big, black suburban.  We all knew every word.  I had friends who went to her performance in Maine at a church after finishing her filming of a music video.  It started raining and she kept singing.  It was a whole thing with the rain and such.  I had other friends who went to each one of her tours from the flagship Taylor Swift Tour to the new and improved 1989 Tour.  I personally attended the 1989 Tour in Massachusetts.  Gillette Stadium was filled to capacity with tens of thousands of screaming and crying men, women, and children.  Even I shed a tear during her throwback to “Fifteen”, standing with my best friend since sixth grade who had seen me through the good, the bad, and the ugly (not necessarily in that order).  Taylor would stop and look around the stadium in awe.  Her face, projected on the massive LED screen, would make direct eye contact with every one of us and then she’d transition into her next banger.  She made you feel like she knew you.  She’s talented, I’ll giver her that.  It was certainly an experience.

Along the way, I feel like I always noticed people clapping back at her but it never really registered.  I always brushed it off as another celebrity feud, another meaningless piece of exploitation or mindless positioning by the media.  When the whole thing about Taylor and Kanye’s “Famous-gate” happened, I remember thinking it was funny.  I, too, called her a snake.  Better her than me #taylorswiftexposedparty (hiss, hiss).  I thought Kanye and Kim were being kind of mean, but I didn’t care.  Not that much.

Not until now.

After the drama with Kanye, she disappeared.  Radio silence followed for approx. three whole years until the $1 Lawsuit.  Maybe some people kept track of her movements or her rare appearances in public places, but I didn’t.  I listened to 1989 just like a lot of people, a slightly bigger fan than I once was, thinking it was her best work to date and wondering what kind of music she would do next, IF she would do anything else.  I also wondered what kind of scandal she would be apart of this time, what version of Ms. Swift would be revealed in the chaos.  Then, just a few weeks ago, she deleted EVERYTHING.  Website?  Gone.  Instagram?  Gone.  Twitter?  Tumblr?  Gone, all gone.  “IT’S ALIVE!!!”  The world screamed.  The words of Lord Baelish from GoT echoed in my ears, “Chaos is a ladder” and Taylor Swift is scrambling up that shit.  She stirred from her hibernation.  What was she going to do now?  Was she hacked?  And she’s back on Spotify?!

Then came the snake.  An actual, bonafide snake video that Taylor posted on Instagram.  People were taken aback to say the least.  General excitement, theories, awkward laughs, shrugs, silence, and comments about how the snake-dragon was kind of scary, followed her posts.  I, on the other hand, was jacked.  I sent updates to like all my friends and would sit and refresh Taylor’s Instagram for a few minutes at a time just to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.  After all, time makes the heart grow fonder.  Or is it distance?  Idk same thing.  The album art popped up with Taylor looking edgy in black and white.  The classic New York Times-I Feel Like Pablo-esc font and color scheme graced the cover’s presence.  “Wow,” I thought.“ Reputation. She’s going after Kanye with this one.”  The too-tight choker, the ripped sweater, the dark makeup, slicked-back hair, this Taylor looks different.  Unprecedented.  Badass.

Taylor Swift released her newest single, “Look What You Made Me Do”, last Friday.  A few friends and I stayed up until late Thursday night to get a first listen.  We drank wine and streamed Ye Olde Taylor Swift while we waited for the single.  When it dropped, the universe lost its collective shit, Spotify kept cutting out, and we listened to the song four times in a row.  Two of my buddies didn’t like it.  They said that the New Taylor was bad, that they missed the Old Taylor Swift.  Her music was better.  I disagreed.  This is Taylor Swift.  What’s to differentiate Old from New?  She just is who she is.

After listening to the song about five-thousand, three-hundred, and twenty-six more times and then watching the following music video nine-hundred times more, I realized this: a lot of people were super upset about this “New Taylor Swift”.  I know.  Groundbreaking.  But then I thought about why, just like my liberal arts education wants me to, and I came to a conclusion.  People dislike change.  Especially those who feel as though they have a personal stake in whatever or whoever is changing.  People loved the Taylor that tapped into their souls and understood their plight of loving people who love them or don’t love them or kind of love them.  In “Look What You Made Me Do”, Taylor Swift focuses on other people in a completely different way and she mostly does it for herself, to build herself up.  That selfish bitch!  But wait.  Doesn’t Nicki Minaj do the same thing in Monster?  What about Katy Perry in Swish Swish?  How about all the countless male artists like Justin Bieber, Kanye West, Drake, etc. who do the same thing?  All of them are different stylistically but they all tend to put across the same message, don’t they?  That message being: Fuck. You.  Taylor would hide little tidbits like that in the past, but her current one has neon arrow signs, black leather, chainsaws, whips, and Grammy’s that get that message across like a flaming garbage fire.  She is finished with everyone’s bullshit and she will do whatever the hell she wants.

I also have my own theories.  I don’t believe in a “New” or “Old” Taylor Swift.  I believe in Taylor Swift.  Each one of us changes and develops in different ways as we get older.  Our viewpoints can/should change, our personalities shift, we move places, we meet people and lose old friends, and, hell, we can develop allergies to gluten and lactose.  So what if I said one day, “No, sorry. The old me is dead.  She wasn’t allergic to anything before but now she can’t eat ice cream without getting the shits, so new, shit-stained me is here to stay.”  Charming, I know, but ultimately untrue.  I’m still who I was in literally every aspect.  I’ve grown.  I look older.  I have different opinions and thoughts.  But I’m still me.  My image is simply what I choose to put forward to other people.  I exist on a continuum. I didn’t just stop one day and become a whole different version of myself.

Going along with the whole image theme, let me enlighten your asses about a little thing called business acumen.  Taylor Swift is a BRILLIANT businesswoman.  She times her music and tour releases for optimal moneymaking and can extend her reign for up to three years worth of Taylor tomfoolery.  There is also something to be said about musicians and their use of imagery to create hype and gain followers (much like a cult leader tbh).  But this is why I’m so into her right now at this moment like never before.  The whole premise of “Look What You Made Me Do” is how imagery and bad press (although Taylor Swift takes bad press and turns it into record breaking hit singles) has driven her to her peak of success.  “Oh look what you made me do!  I’ve won Grammy’s and lawsuits.  I have millions of dollars, loyal fans, a squad of friends, and two lovely cats.”

Since she was a mere fifteen year old girl, singin’ in Nashville, people have been all over her for one thing or another saying she can’t be that nice, or look that surprised all the time, or date that many people, etc.  “Look What You Made Me Do” is her way of saying “you know what?  I’m never going to be perfect in your eyes so why should I try?  I’m a product of what you all think of me and that will never change so I will become the stereotype and throw you all for a loop.”  In “Look What You Made Me Do”, she quite literally just BECAME the headlines.  I know this is a very different artist who operated with a totally different message but I’m going to do it anyway.  An 80’s pop star/model/actress/general badass and current goddess named Grace Jones had/has a similar plan of attack.  If you don’t know who she is, you should Google her ass immediately.  She pushed the boundaries of stereotypes and what people thought of her to the point where she became the stereotype and that was her whole thing as an artist.  Sounds familiar right?  (*cough* Madonna *cough* Lady Gaga *cough* Nicki Minaj and so many others *cough*).

We saw the start of this “Become the Stereotype: Grace Jone’s Method for Financial Success” in 1989.  “Blank Space” portrayed Taylor as a man-hungry, black-widow queen who lured unsuspecting males to her massive mansion only to chew them up and spit them out like a piece of Juicy Fruit Gum after five minutes.  And again, we saw it in “Shake It Off”: the girl can’t dance for shit (although it seems like she been taking lessons because she busts a fuckin’ MOVE in the LWYMMD music video) but she can sure mom-shimmy with the best of em and she does what she wants.

I’ve taken up too much space, but the moral of the story is this: don’t judge someone by what they did when they were younger or what you think they should be.  If I were judged that way, people would forever see a pockmarked sack of hormones with little talent but above average hand-eye coordination.  Let Taylor be.  She said that the Old Taylor couldn’t come to the phone right now because she’s dead, but she is certainly, very much alive.  We criticized her for not being “country” enough.  Then we judged her for not being “pop” enough.  Now we’re judging her for being a “snake” and presenting a different set of thoughts and sounds.  Just because she was young once doesn’t erase everything she’s said, or done, or sung, but she’s evolving.  We’ve been telling her to change her whole life.  Let her do it now.

It’s what we all wanted her to do anyway.  

Wasn’t it?

-A