I still think about “Blank Space” (and pop music and pleasure and perfection and) a lot, about how my mother asked me Why’s it called “Blank Space”? and I said, Becausethere’s something inside me I need to fill! It was true, but I was embarrassed about it. I’ll never be a maneater; I’ll never weaponize the parts of me that are soft. Even the way I like to listen to the song, which is imagining not that T wakes up afraid I’ll ruin his life but ablaze with the knowledge I never could, which is pretending that it is in fact at all possible to weaponize being in love or being a supplicant or being the quiet half of an affair, which is the fantasy that my exes sit down by candlelight and tell ghost stories about how hard I cried, all this is still a recognition of powerlessness, of the suffering of the inevitable cycles we find ourselves in. If I couldn’t get control, I was going to sing about it. I tried it once: dated a guy who had no power over me so I planned dates then canceled them, returned some of his e-mails and left others empty, matched his tone once so he’d think my heart was open then played dumb til he went away. You can do that when boys really want torture. Most don’t. If you’re the one waiting for the e-mail, you’re the one with the blank space and emptiness will never be a gun no matter how hard you try. I think about that ending a lot, how he leaves and the new guy pulls up to her big beautiful mansion in his car and she smiles at us like, I’ll never feel full. I’m going to keep eating. Anyway, I’m seeing my boyfriend on Thursday and I’m going to try to have a good time.