The Mayor of Spring, Texas Plays Tonsil Hockey With a Turkish Hyper-tiger, vol. TRIPITAKA CUT THE INVISIBLE UMBILICAL CORD
The well is cleaned, but no one drinks from it.
This is my heart’s sorrow,
For one might draw from it.
If the human behind the brand were clear-minded,
Good food might be enjoyed at the Common Man.
You blew it. I didn’t realize how much was riding on this, but your complete and utter failure to show even the slightest bit of kindness towards me today has made one thing abundantly clear: there is no human being by the name of Taylor Swift, only a slave to a brand. I now believe with no room for ambiguity that you are incapable of exercising any agency at all as a flesh and blood, feeling, caring individual and lack any capacity whatsoever to make decisions on behalf of your own well-being or the well-being of those you purport to care for unless doing so appears to offer some benefit to the brand whose ascendancy to the height of its respective industry preceded your entrance into adult life. Your feelings and thoughts are nothing but a smoke and mirror show you’ve concocted to convince yourself otherwise, and no doubt the charade runs deep, but the reality is you only feel so it can be channeled into a form which feeds the beast otherwise known as Taylor Swift™.
Champagne at the press of a button doesn’t mean anything to the brand – hence the umbrella – but mollifying the threat represented by someone with privileged access to information about choices you’ve made, the revelation of which in public might devalue the brand, who has made it abundantly clear they are willing to use the mechanism of trashy journalistic hyper-attention directed towards your life as leverage against you is most certainly something capable of motivating you, just as an enthusiastic response you know will end up online at the receipt of an encouraging letter and a shitty acrylic cardigan and all the gee-golly feels proceeding thence sure to drive engagement with the brand is enough to motivate you. Private correspondence with a man you’ve given cause to believe you care for, who won’t be providing any viral advertisement but merely the wool of his heart, body and soul, on the other hand? That means nothing to the brand, and hence neither do I.
Ah, wait, hold on, that’s not quite accurate. After all, you are currently riding the crest of a wave which began with you casting private details of my life into a form designed for consumption by thousands if not millions of people without my consent. Funny, why does that sound familiar? Oh right, because that’s what paparazzi and the trashy content creators – let’s be real: journalist is a bit strong an epithet for beetles – who employ them do to people. I would have thought after all you’ve suffered at their hands, you would be capable of a little self-reflection and perhaps wondered if telling my story without checking in with me to see if I was comfortable with that was right of you to do. It wasn’t, full stop. I have had to grapple with the fact that I am extremely uncomfortable with the content pertaining to my life that has made its way into folklore, so much so as to feel as though I’ve suffered a bite from a vampire who has sucked me dry and tossed my husk aside to be embalmed in a mound of ketamine.
Do not try to contact me unless it is to discuss the terms under which I am to receive the income from my share of the royalties being held by William Bowery Music Publishing, though please do not drag your feet in doing so either, even if it means employing an intermediary, as I could really use the help to staunch the interest I’ve been bleeding out from the debt I’ve accrued over the last two years and am hoping to find the means to move out of the city before winter for the sake of my physical and mental wellbeing. I still love you, but it’s clear to me now that it’s impossible for me to direct any kindness your way or give you any glimpse at all into my life without feeding the worst in you, and hence that the most loving and caring choice I can make is to revoke your access to the enlightened sage who fell in love with you only to be beaten down time and time again for the sincerity of those feelings by a monolithic capitalist juggernaut that values its own fear-driven self-preservation over truth.
Isn’t it just so pretty to think all along the invisible string was really the cord that’s been feeding you from my engagement with the reality you’ve never so much as suspected was out here? Just imagine what you’ll accomplish now that you’ve been unceremoniously yanked into the light kicking and screaming in a pool of my blood! Best of luck, and I’m serious about that income. I really, really don’t want to have to put up with the indignity of fighting for it in court, and unlike the way you’re used to men treating you, that’s not a threat: I’m imploring you to show me the kindness of allowing me the time and space to tell our story in a form which satisfies my creative impulse as well as meets with your consent, which a lawyer’s deposition is most emphatically not.