Some say that it’s unhealthy; to others, it’s just downright insane. But my obsession with country-turned-pop music star Taylor Swift knows no boundaries. Her face adorns the background of my cell phone, and all of her five albums are in my iTunes library. The lyrics to her songs are lodged permanently in my brain, and the cover of her album Red is displayed loud and proud on a blanket I got for Christmas. Yeah, you could say I’m a little bit of a fan.

I’ve always been a T-Swizzle fan, ever since I listened to her first album; and it has since snowballed from there. I went from being just a casual fan, listening to her music every once in a while, to a dedicated, nothing-but-Taylor-Swift-for-24-hours-a-day type of fan. I don’t care if her music is written toward 13-year-old girls with boy troubles; I’m gonna blast her music at a neighbor complaint-inducing volume level regardless. Go ahead, judge me. The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

You probably think that I’m exaggerating, but trust me on this, I am most definitely not. You also probably think I’m crazy; but to that, you would be correct. Now, don’t think I’m one of those psycho fans that would give up an arm and a leg just to see her in concert for the millionth time. I’m not THAT crazy. But I am dedicated, most likely at an above average degree.

I had a blank space baby, and I wrote her name.