With just a chill head bop Jordin still manages to have more rhythm than the three tragedies next to her
My friend once told me
she liked this guy because of his hands
And I found it absurd that anyone
would develop feelings over one feature,
and not care about the rest
It wasn’t until you used your hands
to cup the back of my neck the first time we kissed
and I could feel your firm grasp pull me closer,
and my insides exploded
and my head buzzed with bliss.
And the first night you slept over,
you fell asleep with your hand
laid over my stomach
and your fingers felt like a fire
that I didn’t mind burning my skin.
The first time we got drunk,
was the first time you played with my hair,
and my god I was hooked,
I’d drink forever if it meant you’d never stop.
And in public you’d hold my hand,
and rub your thumb in little circles
that left me wanting you more,
no matter what you would never let me go,
I was glued to you,
and I honestly didn’t mind
When we talked about breaking up,
you saw my lips quiver with fear,
and you brushed over my lips with your fingers
before pulling me into your lap
and you kissed me like never before.
With your hands on my hips
pulling me so close to you,
leaving no space in between us.
It was then I realized I never wanted you to go
Its now that,
I finally understand why hands
were the only feature that mattered
|—||Hands: Carol Shlyakhova(strong-but-breakable)|
|—||Six word story. (via suspend)|
Taylor Swift is young, rich, intelligent, self-confident, in apparent good health and often idolized.
I wouldn’t trade places with her for a million dollars.
Perhaps for $39,699,575.60, which is what she earned last year, according to the Billboard Top 40 Money Makers list. But not for a million dollars. And trust me, there are days when even a music columnist could really use a million dollars.
It’s not worth a million, though, the “being Taylor Swift” thing. For me, it would be an angry-making endeavor. I’d walk around shouting and pointing at people, spewing vitriol like the love child of Don Rickles and Triumph the Insult Comic Dog.
Because she just cannot win.
Search the Internet for “hate Taylor Swift” and you quickly get more than a million dollars’ worth of snarls and slurs.
She is the “lily white, pin-thin,” “vindictive” “former country oddball” who is a “disgusting,” “slut-shaming misogynist” and makes “training-bra music” that is “about as interesting as Olestra-based products, or Swiffers in multiple colors, or tiered Jell-O dessert products, or milk from China that has lead in it.”
Actually, some of those tiered Jell-O cakes are pretty amazing. But I digress…
Swift’s new single, “Shake It Off,” is an “oxymoronic treble-heavy booty bass song for girls with no butts.”
She is a “talentless twit” and a “feminist’s nightmare,” and she has been taken to task for wearing a bikini that was — wait for it — not revealing enough.
And the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum should be “ashamed” to have her name on the Taylor Swift Education Center, now that she’s recording an album of pop songs, even though she donated $4 million to help build the place.
Yes, to be so hated you have to be even more loved. But I don’t think we’d feel that love in the face of such a bludgeoning. It’d be like getting a hug from your mother, then walking into the ring to face Mike Tyson. That kind of love better bring some bandages.
I’m not worried about Swift, though. I’m worried about us. We look tacky. Why do we get angry about music, when we could just go listen to something else, or go watch a ballgame?
By all indications, Swift can take it. She’s managed a stunningly graceful transition from child stardom to adult superstardom. And even as she takes notice of the rancor, she refuses the rebuttals that I would be shouting from my lungtops.
There’s no “Of course I’m leaving country music as a radio format, because country radio programmers can find slots for 30 men in hats hollering about their trucks but no more than one or two places for thoughtful women singing about their lives.”
There’s no “Cowboy Jack Clement loved my songs, and so does Kris Kristofferson. Who are you people to say I’m not talented?”
There’s no “All I’ve done all my life is sing my little songs, and the fact that it makes some people angry points to their own frailties, shortcomings and syndromes.”
Instead, she enlists internationally groovy producers Max Martin and Shellback (the latter is not only a Swede, but I’m also told he is a part-time member of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) to put together a massive, instant, worldwide smash pop hit with lyrics that poke fun at herself.
Oh, and she does a video for “Shake It Off” that is directed by the esteemed Mark Romanek. When that video goes viral, Swift faces accusations of being — wait for it — “racist” because the video finds her — wait an extra beat — dancing with African-Americans.
"Shake it off," she sings, with apparent glee, in her "oxymoronic treble-heavy booty bass song for girls with no butts." Shake off the meanness, the ugliness, the venom.
We shouted, “She’s not country!” So she says, “OK, then, I’m pop.” But not before carrying the country genre for years.
We shouted, “She can’t dance!” So she cops to that, smilingly, in a video.
We shouted other things, too, and she just goes on, singing that “Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate,” and that she’s just going to shake it off.
I hope she does. I think she will.
I wouldn’t, though. Not for a million dollars.
This is everything.
you know that one album that youve listened to so many times and youd defend it with your life and you can anticipate every single little note that comes after the other and you can sing along to every word and it just has a special place in your heart that no other album can fill
who’s cheer captain now bitch