Laughable Lyrics: Taylor Swift aka Overly Attached Psychopath

Warning: The following post is both inflammatory and extremely biased. [Also, it's meant to be silly, so take that stick out of your butt hole, you prude.]

Hi, there.

My name is Kate. I have a problem with sappy lyrics.

I'm not talking about sappy as in breakfast waffles with syrup. I'm talking sappier than Boston, Massachusetts on the day of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Don't think I'm serious?

Yeah, that's right. 

Buuut anyway.

There are just some songs that I cannot stand because the lyrics make me want to yank out my eardrums with fishhooks.

Of course, this is all a matter of personal taste. So really, my opinions should be thrown into the wind like a caped villain into a jet turbine.

But is that going to stop me from ranting?

HELL. NO.

My squishy, unfortunate target today is Taylor Swift, specifically her song "You Belong With Me."

I wanted to start with her song "Love Story," otherwise known as "Romeo and Juliet," because it's pretty sickening. However, that one is so over critiqued it would be like walking into a piñata party that ended weeks ago. The only thing left is a broken piñata whose guts had been spilled and eaten, leaving only papery remains. 

So, anyway.

"You Belong With Me" doesn't quite qualify as sappy, but it does sing "sentimental vomit" at the same decibel as Adele. 

Let us start with the first verse.

"You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

She's going off about something that you said

'Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do."

Why are you stalking their cellphone calls? More importantly, how? 

I dare say that sounds a mite bit stalkish. And by "a mite bit," I mean: 

Yikes.

And since when is his girlfriend not liking his humor a bad thing? 

You like his jokes?

If you think about the age group you're singing about, probably high school, boy's usually joke about three things:

1.) Sex

2.) Sex

3.) Wieners

So, either you must be very perverse or you're a dude, because, let's face it, high school boys don't really have a sense of humor at all.

Second verse:

"I'm in the room, it's a typical Tuesday night

I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like

And she'll never know your story like I do."

Whatever, girl. The only reason you know anything about him is because you stalk him on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, 9gag, Memebase, and Fanfiction.net.

And, what makes your musical taste better than hers?

Just because she doesn't like it doesn't mean she's suddenly unworthy, you silly, self-involved creeper. 

Refrain time!

"But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts

She's Cheer Captain and I'm on the bleachers

Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find

That what you're looking for has been here the whole time.

"If you could see that I'm the one who understands you

Been here all along, so why can't you see?

You, you belong with me, you belong with me."

Oh. My. Gosh.

I don't even know where to begin. 

Firstly, really? Short skirts, cheer captain? Are you going trifle with dumb things like that? 

I can see why short skirts could be a problem. It gives off the wrong vibe. 

But cheer captain? Really?!

What about being a cheer captain makes her lower than you? At least she does something with herself, rather than sit on her fat fanny and eat popcorn like you.

*a-HEM*

You could at least point out some real flaws, like she cheats on him, or she is a practicing Satanist.

But, no. You pick her clothes and her hobby.

Nice. Real mature.

Secondly, how do you know what he's looking for? 

You: Because I know him. We're soul mates. He sat with me once in an art class my Freshman year and he told me about the time he got a papercut. I know him.

Yep. That's love, right there. Plain and simple.

Just because you have a history and you know a lot about each other does not mean that you're meant to be together. 

Otherwise, we'd all be dating our siblings. 

Thirdly, "I'm the one who understands you."

You make him sound like some emo kid or exchange student. 

Hate to break it to you, honey. [Not really.] You're not the only one. If you were, I doubt he'd be ignoring you like this. 

Next verse. 

"Walking the streets with you and your worn-out jeans

I can't help thinking this is how it ought to be

Laughing on a park bench, thinking to myself

Hey, isn't this easy?"

What is with you and clothes, woman? Sheesh. Why can't you just leave it at "you?" 

Unless, of course, you're subtly hinting at the fact that you would like to be in those pants.

And what's easy? 

Laughing? Sitting on a bench? Murdering hobos? Getting into his pants?

Vagueness leaves room for interpretation, madam.

Not to mention, when we don't know what the hell you're talking about, the sweetness of the song is kinda negated.

Next verse!

"And you've got a smile that could light up this whole town

I haven't seen it in a while since she brought you down

You say you're fine, I know you better than that

Hey, what ya doing with a girl like that?"

How do you know it's the girlfriend making him sad? I feel like that's a little presumptive, my dear.

I don't see your facts or proof to back up this claim.  It wouldn't kill you to write a verse about how she's bringing him down, would it? It's easy.

She's got a knife she wants to plunge in your chest.

I haven't seen her change her underwear in days.

You say she's great, but I see the ligature marks on your neck.

Hey, what are you doing with a girl like that?

[Shut up. I'm not a poet.]

See? Simple.

Moving on:

"Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time how could you not know?

Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me."

Holy. Crap.

Absolutely terrifying. Maybe the reason, he's been down this whole time is because you're stalking his house and he hasn't been able to get any sleep for the past three months.

Lawdy.

Next:
Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night

I'm the one who makes you laugh when you know you're 'bout to cry

And I know your favorite songs and you tell me 'bout your dreams

Think I know where you belong, think I know it's with me

You were five. You had a sleep overs until you were seven.

Brief, young friendship does not an undying, mutual love make.

NEXT:

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time, how could you not know?

Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me

You belong with me

Have you ever thought just maybe

You belong with me?

You belong with me 

 

 

 

 

 LOVE ME, MY DARLING. WE ARE MEANT TO BE TOGETHERRRR.

Oh, my word, lady. Leave him alone. Jeez Louise. Let the poor boy make his own decisions. He's not a child.

Put down the chloroform and back away slowly.

Good Golly.

Is it any wonder that this woman has no boyfriend? She scares them all away by cross examining them and analyzing all their actions and emotions. And then stalking all their ex's and analyzing them too.

She's like a terrifying homicide investigator of creepy, obsessive love. Like if Bones or Homicide Hunter: Lt. Joe Kenda had a baby with any of the Twilight books.

Here's some advice, Taylor Swift. Rather than write songs about being a jealous stalker, go do a crossword. That should jump start the more logical side of your brain, which will then put down your screaming libido.

Maybe then you'll be able to write better lyrics.

Welp, that's about all I can say about this song. Until next time.

Peace off.

Black Plague

Okay, so, it’s been a while since I’ve been here to give you silly people an update.

Surprise!

Now.

What I’m here for is another rant in regards to one person: Rebecca Black.

If you don't know who that is, you are a shame to all memes and viral videos everywhere.

My college, the lovely place that it is, decided that it would be a good idea to play “Friday” by Rebecca Black to help raise money for the earthquake victims in Japan.

Until this point, I had never heard this song before. I had watched the Youtube video and a couple of hilarious spoofs of it, but it never crossed my mind again.

My first reaction to the news it was going to be broadcasted across campus was: “Hmm, this might get annoying.”

Then, I forgot about the whole business of Rebecca Black, despite the posters around campus that read “Black Friday,” heralding the mass destruction of sanity and people’s ability to comprehend much of anything past ‘fun, fun, fun, fun’.

However, I didn’t realize it would be:

~ On loop

~ Over the loud speakers.

~ Starting at 7am until they had raised 2000 dollars.

[Coolest Gravestone ever.]

As I was walking to class for the first time that morning, I was feeling chipper.

It was raining outside, the air was cool, and I was wearing my shoe socks.

Then a song drifted into my unsuspecting earholes.

Then I was audio-assaulted by the lyrics:

“Everybody’s lookin’ forward to the weekend


Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)

Partyin’, partyin’ (Yeah)

Fun, fun, fun, fun


Lookin’ forward to the weekend”

After that point, my ability to hear had been corrupted to a point where I could never regain my taste for decent music.

No, no, I didn’t like the song.

It was just so bad that it was permanently scarred into my audio memory, removing all traces of goodness like Hans Zimmer and Danny Elfman forever.

I hastily dashed into the nearest building hoping that the walls would douse the terrible noise and assuage my disgust.

The building was built solidly enough that I was out of the onslaught for the moment.

But I still had to go to class.

So I braved it across campus and made it alive.

As I sat in the classroom, safely away from the horror that still continued to throb in people’s innocent minds, I feared.

How long could this go on? How long will it take until someone, seized by rage at the audacity pouring from the speakers, drives a car into the station hosting the fundraiser? How long until Rebecca Black’s voice permanently takes the place of every singer that ever lived?

Even now as I sit here typing this blog, the repulsion from the music threatens my ability to stay seated. Even the calming voice of Enya could not sooth me.

Why?! I asked, my question directed at God. Why?!

What could possibly possess a person to think it was a good idea to do this?!

Even if it’s for a good cause, the latent damage and psychological appointments that will result costs far more!

Horrors!

And I still had to go back to my dorm!

Despite the overwhelming urge to shriek and clutch my ears, I walked stoically back to across campus to my room.

As I sat down at my desk and tried with shaking hands to turn on my iTunes, my thoughts flashed to Fuzzle and to Brother.

Both were frail in their ears and didn’t have the musical experience of poor quality tunes that I had.

They’d never make it.

Visions flashed in my mind: Fuzzle crumpling to the ground, gray matter oozing from his ears, Brother rending his clothes and tearing out his own eyes to allay the pain in his brain.

Panic seized me.

I had to save them.

Gathering up what money I had to my name (a total of 4 dollars and 76 cents), I ran to the booth where they were playing the accursed song.

I slammed it down on the table and screamed, “Take it! Take it all! Just make it stop!”

They informed me through their sadistic grins that they still had over 300 dollars left to raise.

Agonized, I threw myself on the concrete, praying God would make it rain money instead.

But alas, the music played on.

Even after they had raised 2000 dollars, it still played.

I resorted to holing myself up in my dorm room and the library to hide from the hideous desecration of song.

The music finally ceased around 5 o’clock.

The campus went eerily quiet, but within the first seconds of silence a breath of relief and joy sighed out of all the residents.

Now that my story is done, it’s time for a rant.

What. The. Hell?

I know I said that in my Emerson rant, but this merits it far more than he ever did.

This girl was given a music video as a gift for her 16^th birthday.

Her parents paid approximately 300,000 dollars for this piece of unholy sacrilege and told the record company to let her make a music video.

And now, because the record studio is a spineless, money-sucking wench, it’s grossing thousands, possibly millions of dollars because of how bad she sucks.

Music has nothing to do with talent anymore. It has to do with how much money you’re willing to shell out!

Which provokes me to ask, will the literary world fall this far as well?!

Son of a biscuit!

I have never seen something this awful get popular so quickly.

I mean, sure, there was Beiber, but he’s grown into something less abominable now since he’s finally hit puberty and he got famous through his own song work.

NOT BECAUSE HIS PARENTS BOUGHT HIM A MUSIC VIDEO!

Some of you may argue, “Hey it’s not that bad of a song. It’s got a great tune.”

No. No, it doesn’t.

I think there were like 7 notes that she had to sing and I’m pretty sure those are the only ones that she can hit.

“But the lyrics are catchy.”

Yes, because they were written by a 12 year old.

Repetition does not make a song pleasant to hear. It only makes it annoyingly difficult to wipe from your audio memory!

And NO, Rebecca Black, repeating a word does not lend it more emphasis.

That just makes it maddeningly pointless and it makes you sound like a broken record.

And another thing!

There is no depth in the lyrics at all.

Nothing.

It’s just flat, completely anti-poetic garbage.

Let me tell you the meaning of the lyrics in three words: It’s Friday.

Ta-Da!

Not to mention what she’s describing has to be the most mundane, stereotypical scenario about which any half-brained writer could have thought.

She talks about eating cereal for Pete’s sake!

The only songs I know that have those sorts of subjects that are ones by Lemon Demon and Psychostick and those songs are clearly satirical.

Augh!

I feel like I could-

No, I feel like my foot––on morphine––could write a better song.

If it’s this easy in the record world to fail this big, I might invest in a high quality music video with the most irritating and repetitious lyrics known to man.

No, I’d never stoop so low.

I’d rather not make it at all and produce my own works myself, through labor and tears, than have my parents pay through the nose to get me famous.

And so I will sit, here in the mire of obscurity with my pet rock and Fuzzle, and wait for my time to come.

Yeah, you’re right.

If I ever get famous, it will be a miracle.

ANYWAY.

The rant is done.

Rebecca Black’s music can die now.

Peace off.