On the night of the awards, Taylor Swift will get into the elevator on the top floor, dressed to impress in a 19th century petticoat she had shipped to her from the remains of the Titanic wreckage. She’ll stare into her hand mirror, gaze lovingly at her curls and practice saying, “oh this old thing? It’s just a vintage dress I found on the floor of the Atlantic ocean.” She’ll smile coyly and practice looking humble as the elevator opens up on the 18th floor.
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Fan-fiction is the written word equivalent of taking two naked dolls and mashing them together to make what you think sex looks like when you’re 10 years old. And it’s written at that level.