When I woke up today, it was a morning like any other. I was greeted by the familiar feelings of extreme nihilism and apathy toward every one and every thing, but mostly toward myself.
To make me feel some self-worth, I started checking my Twitter feed, not because I wanted to, but because as a 20-something yuppie this was the existential shackle I am bound to.
The first thing to pop up was this lazy promotional ad.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/DietCoke/status/526778725262966785[/tweet]
"Fucking Taylor Swift and her fucking cats," I said to myself, while simultaneously hoping a dying star in our stellar neighbourhood would finally collapse and trigger a gamma ray burst that would wipe out humanity and my miserable existence.
I got up and looked through my pantry for anything that had the word quinoa written on it in case I ran into Wes Anderson and he nonchalantly asked me what I had for breakfast that morning. I also turned on my Nespresso machine and started brewing a coffee blend you've never heard of.
While drinking said coffee, I noticed the New York Times had a review of Taylor Swift's new album.
I clicked the URL and read the review, which could only be described as a word bukkake that praised the Pennsylvania-born serial relationship artist at every turn possible.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/nytimes/status/526232535026900992[/tweet]
"FINE I'LL FUCKING LISTEN TO IT," I said to my dog, whose eyes at that moment held more contempt for me then I did for myself, which I didn't think was possible.
Iillegally pirated logged into iTunes and bought the digital album. I clicked on the first single, Welcome to New York, co-written by Swift and the frontman for generic rock band OneRepublic.
Immediately, Taylor's chirpy vocals bled into my ears and illicited lucid thoughts of losing myself in Gotham alongside her impossibly long legs.
I was hooked from the moment I hit play.
Feeling worthless afterward, like having sex with a 2 because you somehow convinced yourself you had compatible personalities, I tried to find some validation on the internet from others who had a modicum of self respect.
Television blob Lena Dunham seemed to have fallen in love with Taylor the way I had, and this was good enough for me, because I have low standards.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/lenadunham/status/526593227978461184[/tweet]
In conclusion, I give 1989:
4 misanthropic existences out of 5
To make me feel some self-worth, I started checking my Twitter feed, not because I wanted to, but because as a 20-something yuppie this was the existential shackle I am bound to.
The first thing to pop up was this lazy promotional ad.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/DietCoke/status/526778725262966785[/tweet]
"Fucking Taylor Swift and her fucking cats," I said to myself, while simultaneously hoping a dying star in our stellar neighbourhood would finally collapse and trigger a gamma ray burst that would wipe out humanity and my miserable existence.
I got up and looked through my pantry for anything that had the word quinoa written on it in case I ran into Wes Anderson and he nonchalantly asked me what I had for breakfast that morning. I also turned on my Nespresso machine and started brewing a coffee blend you've never heard of.
While drinking said coffee, I noticed the New York Times had a review of Taylor Swift's new album.
I clicked the URL and read the review, which could only be described as a word bukkake that praised the Pennsylvania-born serial relationship artist at every turn possible.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/nytimes/status/526232535026900992[/tweet]
"FINE I'LL FUCKING LISTEN TO IT," I said to my dog, whose eyes at that moment held more contempt for me then I did for myself, which I didn't think was possible.
I
Immediately, Taylor's chirpy vocals bled into my ears and illicited lucid thoughts of losing myself in Gotham alongside her impossibly long legs.
I was hooked from the moment I hit play.
Feeling worthless afterward, like having sex with a 2 because you somehow convinced yourself you had compatible personalities, I tried to find some validation on the internet from others who had a modicum of self respect.
Television blob Lena Dunham seemed to have fallen in love with Taylor the way I had, and this was good enough for me, because I have low standards.
[tweet]https://twitter.com/lenadunham/status/526593227978461184[/tweet]
In conclusion, I give 1989:
4 misanthropic existences out of 5
