I want to wear a Taylor Swift concert shirt around. Not buy one but find one. Maybe. A thrift store. Some large woman cherished shirt tossed, maybe accidentally, during a move-in with a new boyfriend.
“I donated my Tupac Bootlegs; you have to get rid of THAT white girl.”
Then, she reluctantly gave up the shirt and hid the CDs at her Mom’s because that’s what we do in the ghetto. Mom’s have treasures. They keep our favorite things until maybe they need rent or something too. Then, we’ll ask:
“You never asked for them back, so I had a yard sale. Some hipster kids swooped in and bought all your baseball cards. Then, I donated that shirt with THAT white girl on it.”
I think Taylor Swift would certainly deserve better recognition than being that white girl. I don’t know why celebrities have to go to Barbados or Hawaii. Just come to the ghetto…no one will recognize you. Unless. You have gold teeth and yell about popping caps or vaginas and popping smoke while capping vaginas. I’m sure. It’s something like that. A combination of vaginas. Caps. Smoke. Et cetera.
I would wear it to all the service shops, liquor stores, and tire rental places in my neighborhood.
“Why do you have THAT white girl on your shirt?”
“Because. Man. Just. Why’s it gotta be like that?”
“Just asking. I wouldn’t wear it.”
“Good. Don’t borrow my clothes anymore. It’s all Taylor Swift.”
“Wow! That’s really—.”
“Man, that’s so—.”
“Don’t say it. I’m old, but I think I could still kick your ass.”
“Refreshing. It’s. I like Taylor Swift too.”
“What? Since when?”
He’ll tell me this long-ass story in between getting those hotel bottles for the homeless that walk in from begging for change—blunt wrappers for the fast-food workers that just got off shift. How he met a girl who liked her was like being vegetarian or Mormon. You try it for a while. He even claimed he went to a concert. The fast-food worker called him a liar. I agreed.
So. Then I tell them my story.
“She was outside. Wait—. Hold up! Hold the f—- up! She was outside! You ate a bagel?”
“It was a good bagel. I traveled 82 miles before breakfast on my bicycle. The bagel was more important.”
“Damn. I don’t know.”
“You could have met Taylor Swift.”
“I don’t—. I don’t think so. I was sweaty. You know? I stunk. I just wanted some coffee and a bagel. She’s pretty.”
We’ll stare at my new faded thrift store shirt.
I used um. The Noun Project. Then drew each frame in Adobe Creative Cloud on my phone. Then imported them into Adobe Premiere Rush one at a time to build each second. I scribble animations while customers yell at me all day. Yay. Haha.