Listen, I’m proud to have inspired such an iconic song, but I’ve been waiting for thirty years to gets this off my chest: Tom completely misread me. Like, completely.

First of all, I mean, I guess I love America, but it’s complicated. Many of our government’s policies have been pretty problematic over the years. Also, I only go to church on holidays and call my mom on the weekends—that’s pretty much all I can handle with her. Regardless, those are things that shouldn’t be highlights of my or anyone else’s biography.

And you can’t imagine how frustrating it is when people see me at the mall, and an Elvis song comes on. They’ll grin at me like, Go ahead, we know you’re “CRAZY ‘bout Elvis—HA-HA.” Sure, I like Elvis. “Hound Dog” is fun. “Blue Christmas” is okay. But that doesn’t show an above-average ratio of interest.

Then there are the horses. Christ, the horses. I mean, sure, they’re fine, very pretty, I get it. But I’m not like some weird horse superfan.

I’ll tell you the truth: Tom never got to know me well enough. He liked the idea of me, of the “girl next door” who loves her boyfriend and blah blah blah. But he swung and missed on all the nuances of my personality.

Like he didn’t mention that I am severely allergic to dust. That’s not fun or a particularly cool thing to write a rock anthem about, but it’s accurate. If I forget to take a Zyrtec, I am toast.

One time, I drove to Reno on a dare. I had just got laid off and figured, what the hell, dare me to go, Aunt Judy. And Aunt Judy did. Reno is nice. Had the best waffle in my life there. Write that one up!

I also have a Mason jar filled with Barbie heads in my junk drawer. It started as a prank, but then I just kind of liked the aesthetic. Nothing rhymes with that, but it’s who I am.

I’m just saying that I would like a redo. I know everyone is super attached to “Free Fallin,’” and that it’s probably impossible to pivot, but it’s never stopped me from fantasizing that I could have a say in my own narrative.

And to all those “bad boys” out there thinking that the “good girls are home with broken hearts.” We’re not. We’re totally fine. I’ve got a whole back catalog of Steinbeck novels to read. And none of them are about horses. Except for The Red Pony.

I mean, come on! The guy wrote a whole song about me, yet he claims he broke my heart? You can’t be a baller out there, having fun, standing in the shadow being all edgy, and yet also getting to write my name in the sky. The only thing I want written in the sky is a retraction. So, stick that in your left ear!

Look, I’m trying not to be petty about all this. It’s probably all for naught anyway. The top line of my obituary will read “Inspiration for ‘Free Fallin,’” no matter what. Still, I just wish Tom hadn’t done me like that.