When Taylor Swift is not filling her pussy up with 18-year-old Kennedy cock she is trying to marry, she’s filling it up with fabric.
She’s wholesome for the sake of her career—a certified money maker with the best scam: singing tedious, pop tart, candy-coated generic bullshit tween songs that have the intellectual substance of a kid’s show. Songs that say all the obvious shit. Songs that have the same depth as a fucking puddle. Songs for the retards of the world to relate to, because most people don’t have fucking brains.
Her shit is on the radio whenever I turn it on. It’s that kind of shit that makes me want to blow my fucking brains out. But instead I’ll just wait for this cartoon character of a teen icon to fucking crack...because you know she will. One day her stage show will involve her screaming death metal or obscure lesbian art songs about rape and torture while fisting herself while covered in pig blood. Because flowers and butterflies bullshit with no substance can only last so long before a serious fucking collapse. You can only be a marketing tool or a corporate puppet for so long before the real you wants to break free…and this fabric insertion is a start...a foreshadowing of what’s to come...
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