Taylor had resented her name for a long time now. Loathed the fact that every time she told someone that it was, in fact, her name, they felt the need to bring up the “real” Taylor. Taylor Swift. Regardless of whether they were a bona fide “Swiftie” or not (and if they were, they’d usually tack on the additional “quip,” “Is your middle name Alison too?”). It was enough to make her consider going by something else as the 2010s wore on, and Swift was the only Taylor in anyone’s eyes (and ears). But, at the same time, she thought, No, it was my name first, I was born a few years before her. Even so, Taylor didn’t feel like mentioning that to every person who brought up Swift to her, almost as if waiting for any opportunity to do so. It would have been a waste of precious breath after enough of these types of “introducing yourself for the first time” encounters. So she went back to considering a name change. Maybe another unisex option like “Jessie” or “Morgan” (even if both of those names veered more to the feminine side—try as the men called as such might wish to deny it).

Taylor biked through a small, forgotten town as she seriously considered crafting a new identity in this way—all because Taylor Swift had taken her original one. There were towns like this all over Colorado. Towns that looked like bombed-out landscapes that God had forgotten (along with everyone else). Filled with strip malls that, to the untrained eye, might appear abandoned, but were still “alive and kicking.” As a seasoned resident of the state (and the United States in general), Taylor knew this well enough by now. She also knew that, at any given moment in a public setting wherein wares were hawked, Swift might be played over the sound system. It was as inevitable as death and taxes (especially if one ever dared to set foot in a Starbucks). And, worse still, her oeuvre was so endless that it was highly likely you could hear multiple songs of hers in one outing.

An outing like the one she was about to embark upon as she parked and locked her bike up just outside of a King Soopers. One that was sandwiched between such establishments as a pet supply store, an empty building with the telltale faded letters of a former Party City and a Dazbog Coffee. She didn’t know why she felt obliged to stop; she really had a good rhythm going on her bike, almost as though she was riding in mid-air, E.T.-style. In fact, she knew that she should have just kept going on her merry way. Not merry, actually, but that’s how the expression goes. One that indicates a person will go about doing the same thing—whether it’s harmful to others or not—without a care in the world. It’s the type of phrase that might have originated in fairy tales. Though the British like to lay claim to it since both “merry” and “jolly” are the types of words that only they like to say. And since, well, they like to lay claim to everything (see also: colonialism).

Whatever the inexplicable reason, the motive behind the invisible hand that guided her, Taylor did not go on her merry way. Instead, she went into the King Soopers in search of nothing in particular. Propelled by an unseen force. Often, she liked going to the magazine aisle (where “bodice-ripping” paperbacks were also displayed) to be reminded of a time when print media (however “base” in content when sold at a supermarket) still had a hold on the world. Enough of a hold to prompt various “members” of the paparazzi to make Britney Spears’ life a living hell because, at the peak of her tabloid fodder days, a photo of her could fetch upwards of $500,000. The budget for most photo directors of print magazines now barely even gets up to that amount in six months, let alone a single week. But for old times’ sake, Taylor picked up the latest issue of Us Weekly. And who else should be on it but Taylor Swift? Along with her “beau,” and a headline screaming: “Travis & Taylor: What’s Next?”

Taylor had to admit it was a much more tasteful sort of headline than the type of shit that Britney used be saddled with (“Britney & Justin: Did She Betray Him?,” “Sick!” [how to the point] and “Living With Mental Illness” [not gaslighting and misogynistic in nature at all]). And, in many ways it was shocking to think that Swift came up during the same years when Britney was on her “decline” (with 2006 marking Swift’s self-titled debut). The two women shouldn’t have been able to exist on the same plane, let alone in the same timeline. But then, albeit for entirely different reasons, neither should Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher have been able to.

And then, just when Taylor thought she couldn’t resent “Tay” (or neoliberalism) any further, the sound of her voice singing, “Oh, here we go again” kicked off “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys.” Of all the songs to play over the loudspeaker, it was probably among the least expected for Taylor. It seemed to be a choice both odd and eerie because places like this weren’t usually known for offering up such au courant soundtracks. A customer was more likely to hear Phil Collins or The Police in a joint like King Soopers than a song from one of the most recent Swift albums. Had she permeated the culture that unstoppably? To the point where even a strip mall wasn’t safe. If not from her old canon, then at least from her new one. It was enough to make Taylor want to run into the bathroom and yak. And yes, now that she thought about it, using the bathroom probably was a subconscious reason for coming in here as well. To release her bladder before continuing the long journey back to her own small town a few miles in the opposite direction of this one.

Alas, when she tried to find one, it wouldn’t make itself known. Nor would the employee she asked concede to letting her go in the back to use it. So it was a fruitless pit stop in every way. Unless…she tried to make it worth a damn by trying her luck at the Dazbog Coffee. Surely if she bought something, it entitled her to the bathroom.

Double-checking on her bike and its security before she went into the next establishment, Taylor could feel her bladder crying out more intensely. It was getting urgent. Alas, no sooner had she walked into the Dazbog than the sound of Swift declaring, “I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake…” infected her cochleas. And here she thought Starbucks was the only chain with the audacity to do this to her. But turns out, no. Swift’s hypnotic hold on the nation couldn’t be escaped in any crevice or corner where commerce was in effect.

She ran out the door before the barista could even bother to look up at her. Perhaps it was time to go more “rustic” and piss in a bush somewhere. And as she unlocked her bike so that she could ride it somewhere more remote to do so, a woman she had never seen before approached her and said, “Laura? Is that you?”

Taylor looked at her strangely. “Um, no. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Taylor resumed fiddling with her bike lock, indicating the “conversation” was over, but the unknown woman kept pressing, “Are you sure? Your name isn’t Laura?”

Taylor whipped around again and, without thinking, snapped, “No. My name isn’t Laura. It’s Taylor.”

The woman regarded her with even more interest now as she replied, without hesitation, “Oh. Like Taylor Swift.”

The lock disengaged, giving Taylor the escape she desperately needed, not even bothering to say anything back to that tired comment as she hopped on her saddle and rode off. And as she biked toward some as-of-yet unseen bush to squat behind and relieve herself, she vowed that tomorrow would be the day she finally changed her name. Because this whole Taylor Swift thing wasn’t “bound to blow over.” It appeared as though the “real” Taylor would only become more famous—more indelible in the cultural lexicon—the more that time wore on.