Arts Vanity: Why I Disappeared, A Thrilling Exposé by Taylor A. Swift

Caroline A. Tsai
Megan M. Ross

Before you ask, the rumors are all true. I did fall in love with Joe Alwyn, Hollywood’s forty-third hottest man-child. Sure, his looks fall short of Jake Gyllenhaal and Calvin Harris. And okay, he doesn’t carry the social media relevance of Tom Hiddleston or Harry Styles. Yeah, he does some annoying stuff, like how he freaks out whenever I drop more than $15,000 on Chanel dresses or pay to landscape my four houses. He’s like, “Whoa, Tay, how can you justify paying two-thirds of my net worth on one rare Japanese shrub?” and I’m like, “Oh, Joe, you’re so cute! Will you run away with me?” and he’s like, “Didn’t we do that last weekend?” and I’m like, “Okay, but that was the second house, and I haven’t seen Number Four in a while. I just wanna make sure the upstairs Jacuzzi hasn’t gotten gross."

Our love story will go down in history, like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, or Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber—one of those classic, Old Hollywood romances.

You want to know where it all started. Let me paint you a scene: dive bar on the East Side. Everybody was staring at me. I don’t know why, because I was wearing my disguise: a fake mustache, bleached dreadlocks, and a sumo wrestler fat suit. If only I weren’t so damn recognizable! Fame is exhausting.

Anyway, he walked in: average height, average build, possibly the blandest face I have ever seen. It was love at first sight. My hands were shaking. “Oh my gosh,” I whispered to Meredith, my cat. She’s a great listener. “I gotta have him, Mer. He looks like a freakin’ TJ Maxx model.”

He motioned to the bartender. Nervous, I felt my fat suit deflate a little.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I whispered to the bartender, who set down a glass. I took a sip and coughed: Capri Sun Fruit Explosion. I giggled flirtatiously, touching my lip (my fake mustache was kind of falling off). “Have I seen you before?”

“I was just in a movie,” he said.

OMG, he had a British accent! “‘I was just in a movie,’” I mocked his accent drunkenly. “You should take that as a compliment, by the way. What movie?”

“Does it matter?” he said seductively, in a way that suggested the movie did not perform that well at the box office or garner critical acclaim. “I might not have a Range Rover or Jaguar. I might look like an untoasted slice of Wonder bread. But I promise I’ll love you, and take care of you in my modest home in the English countryside.”

Reader, I married him. By that, I mean I wear his initial on a necklace. Not because he owns me, but because he knows me. #Feminism.

I know what you’re thinking. He should be enough for me… but he’s not. That’s why I’ve been penning anonymous poems and posting them under a pseudonym on articles about me. I may have ten Grammys, but all I want is the Napatree Sand Dollar Award. Although ostensibly fictional, it’s the most selective award ever—no one has EVER won it, which is why I must. After all, love may be fleeting, but Reputation is forever.

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