Trailer trash

Every one of the celebrity’s senses was telling her that something was very wrong. Her skin felt that she was no longer wearing her elegant and expensive clothes, her nose detected a stench never encountered in the places a rich celebrity frequented. And her eyes saw the interior of what could only be described as a disgusting trailer.

Is this some kind of joke? A hidden camera? the star thought, still not fully awake.

Suddenly the door opened somewhere and a dirty, stinking man entered the trailer.

“Hey, honey, I’m home,” he said like a man who could barely speak English.

“Is this some kind of joke? A hidden camera?” Taylor Swift said, this time out loud.

“What? What’s going on, sweetheart?” said the man, who turned out to be toothless.

“What is this supposed to be?! Where am I?!”

“You’re at home, what’s the matter?” the stranger said, trying to touch her.

“Don’t touch me, you filthy bastard!” she screamed, jumping up and fleeing into the corner, from where she finally saw her reflection in the mirror. Was that her? she thought in panic. She could still recognize her face, but it was a face as if from another world—one in which she was not a successful woman but white trash, a whore, a homeless woman or something of the sort.

“I am Taylor Swift, a successful, talented singer! What is going on here?!”

“You must have had a really weird dream. You’re Taylor, my wife. You work as a prostitute in the nearby brothel. Your shift starts in a minute, so get ready,” her “husband” said, pointing to a short skirt, torn stockings and high boots lying on the floor.

“No, no, that’s impossible!” Taylor screamed while typing the phrase “Taylor Swift” into an old phone she had found, which returned 0 search results.