Taylor Swift would love you so, so very much, but she would never, ever tell you about it. She would, however, have the world’s most emotionally draining Tumblr, all secretly dedicated to you. Seriously, that thing would be covered top to bottom with blurry pictures of trees and sayings like “When you find the one worth your tears, he won’t make you cry.” Her Facebook statuses would be a veritable museum of cheesy, passive-agressive song lyrics that she hopes, in the depths of her Robert Pattinson poster-plastered bedroom, you will notice and recognize are about you. Ideally, you’d reveal your undying love for her (in the rain, on a horse, wearing a white tuxedo if you could) and sweep her off to endless nights of no premarital sex.
Avril would stay up all night with you on the phone, twirling the chord around her fingers and kicking her Invader Zim-slippered feet back and forth as she lay on her stomach. When she got off the phone, you would pick her up and she would crawl down from her window and you guys would run around your town, spraying graffiti on various federal buildings in the shapes of skulls, Hello Kitty, and hearts with arrows through them. You guys would swig vodka out of a Deer Park bottle and throw eggs at your principal’s house. Her adorably punky little demeanor would just intoxicate you and make you forget every adult concern. But then you’d remember that she’s like, thirty, and it wouldn’t seem so cute or mercurial anymore.
Beyonce would be that high-maintenance girl that is just so incredibly beautiful that you continue to indulge her increasingly ridiculous whims because you cannot believe you scored someone so many light years away from your league. Just seeing her every morning would destroy your self-esteem and remind you that, no matter how far you get in life, you will never be good enough for her. You’d find yourself one day at 4 in the morning, having driven two states away, not having slept for almost three nights, staring at a row of lip glosses in the only pharmacy you could find open, trying to remember which flavor she preferred and deeply fearing bringing her Sparkle Peach when she clearly stated Diamond Raspberry. You would break out into heaving sobs and decide you need to break it off for your own mental health.
Kreayshawn would be the girl that secretly turns you on in ways you’ve never before experienced, but whom you know you’ll never be able to introduce to your family/ friends. You would have to constantly come up with reasons why she can’t be exposed to the outside world, and always be gently encouraging her to maybe not be so… whatever she is. Eventually, you’d cave and agree to take her to an outing at a baseball game with some of your friends, and she would bring fifty of her closest, most humiliating friends who can’t stop yelling racial slurs and urinating on the floor, and you’d end it on the basis that you just “don’t see it going anywhere serious.”
Your money would start disappearing in small increments from your wallet. She would be the girl you dread going out with on weekends, as you know the night will invariably end with her in tears, vomiting as you drag her, shoeless, into the passenger seat of your car. She would be constantly accusing other people of being “Just fucking jealous of how hot [she] is” as she stumbles, hungover and unshowered, in front of a group of seniors at a church pancake breakfast. Also, she would give you chlamydia.
No one has ever had sex with Nicki Minaj more than one time, as she eats her mates post-coitus.
You would have a relatively uneventful, entirely decent six-month relationship with Adele which ends in a rather unspectacular way, when you both decide that the long-distance thing probably won’t work when you decide to take that consulting job in Aspen. Then, Adele would proceed to enter a period of righteous mourning that is three times as long as the relationship itself, in which she unites with her friends for repeated nights of “I Will Survive” on karaoke, entire bottles of red wine, and free-form poetry on her blog that seems like it must be talking about you. She will constantly refer to herself as having “emerged stronger” and “not been broken.” You will ask for your Strokes t-shirt and favorite coffee mug back, she will inform you that she “burned them, like you burned the last traces of [her] human dignity.” You’ll manage to eke out a slight, defeated “Aww, come on, man.”