The packages arrived square and thin and carefully wrapped on Saturday afternoon. There were three of them, but only one was mine. If I could have rejected my package, sent it back from whence it came and been refunded my $34 plus shipping, I would have. I didn’t want it anymore. The two other identical packages belonged to my neighbors, who didn’t seem to want theirs either, because they sat outside all weekend. Inside was the vinyl record for Taylor Swift’s _The Life of a Showgirl_ , an album that was released on Friday, but which we had all ordered on her website weeks before. Eventually I took my package inside, but I haven't opened it. I don't need to, because I have already listened to the album on streaming, and I know that it's not good. I had high hopes for this album, because Swift was finally returning to the producers she used for _1989_ and _Reputation_. I've listened to her music since we were both in high school, and my body remembers the anticipation it felt before some of her better albums, and the ecstasy of having that anticipation rewarded with an LP full of bangers. But despite Swift's meteoric rise in the last five years, the quality of her work has stagnated. No combination of fanfare and publicity blitz and headlines and awards can outweigh an album that you don't want to put on repeat. "Only as hot as your last hit, baby," Swift sings on this album. Unfortunately for her, that phrase feels like a curse.