READING, Pa.–Taylor Swift has been placed under a suicide watch by concerned members of her entourage, the Pug Bus learned today. The popular, six-foot-tall singer-songwriter has been sideswiped by increasingly severe and frequent panic attacks that have played havoc with her mental health and with her ability to write revenge songs.
“Taylor is so terrified of being alone? She cannot even go to the bathroom by herself? said Rainbow, an under-assistant to Ms. Swift’s manicurist who did not wish to be identified for fear of being placed on permanent toilet-monitor duty.
In addition to a dread of her own company, Ms. Swift has recurring nightmares about Kanye West interrupting her to make a speech while she’s having sex. As a result she hasn’t had a partner in nearly two weeks, the longest she’s gone without one since she was fifteen.
The lack of sex deprives Ms. Swift not only of the validation she craves but also of the material for the petty, self-righteous, and vindictive songs that have made her a demigod to petty, self-righteous, and vindictive adolescents.
“Taylor hasn’t written a break-up song in, like, forever? There’s been nobody to break up with?” said Pixie, who oversees a crew of six responsible for the care and transportation of the hundreds of stuffed animals that Ms. Swift takes on tour with her.
Like most of Ms. Swift’s entourage, Pixie hasn’t uttered a declarative sentence for years, but she is nonetheless certain whom to blame for Ms. Swift’s emotional decline.
“All the haters? All the jokes about her boyfriends? OMG!!! The fake porn photos?And the hurtful T-shirts? Like how is she supposed to deal with that? She’s only one person, you know?”
Although Taylor Swift has been accused of making “training bra music,” there’s gold in them there molehills, and that’s what has her people shitting bricks. As long as Ms. Swift is twenty-two going on fourteen or twenty-three going on fifteen, the hits will keep on coming; but what happens if her emotional age catches up with chronological age? Is she going to turn into Bob Dylan overnight?
As Pixie might say, “Duh?”
Hence the suicide watch. Hence the aroma therapy on the tour bus. Hence the constant stream of tweets to stoke the pre-pubescent ire of the army of Swifties, who put fatwas on the heads of clothing manufacturers, singers, or Golden Globe hosts who defame their high priestess.
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