If there's a doctor in the house, please I need you to surgically rearrange my organs so they spell out Heil Taylor Swift because I'm about to lose it over here in an indignant schizo-autismo meltdown. "Why do I need to do that?" you ponder while sitting around the house in nothing but a Hello Kitty thong. Well, hold your bitches tightly, as I am legally and morally obligated to inform you that I am exercising my right to free speech and being the village idiot that I am, primarily as it's the only way I can get the crass singer-songwriter celeb's attention so that I may tirelessly seduce her, after which we will celebrate a two to three year high-publicity marriage before I murder her in a psychopathic, premeditated way with an unspecified piece of patio furniture so that I may take her still warm body down to my secret subasement dungeon that I also utilize as a tax-deductable office space in order to so giddily violate and peel her nicely as my mother once did masterfully, before that accursed flesh eating bacteria took the goddess that birthed me from this fine world, to the audacious trick-or-treaters dressed up as characters from Citizen Kane who showed up on our thirty-four acre piece of swampland real estate in the middle of July, ringing our doorbell that I miraculously configured to play the greatest Rammstein midi on Limewire, and the wake of consequences that followed made us come to the conclusion that it was a brilliantly good idea to hang the bodies we were making with the remains of all the Alaskan buffalo we ascertained while dynamite hunting in the forest, despite, if you'll excuse me for regurgitating what you've heard a thousand times already cuz I’m like a kid on Christmas who just snuck outta her room after midnight only to find that Santa left a present that suspiciously looked about the size and shape of the Elmo Sexual Abuse Supportive Friend And Ally sing-along talking doll that I put on top of my Christmas list and circled in sparking green ink so my mother wouldn’t miss it, y'know, despite me feeling like a piss drunk beaver who might be a tad buttsore after a bender and finding that his dam was replaced by a cheap Lithuanian substitute, as you’re sure to relate with and subdue my uncontrollable desire to one day wear Taylor's skin suit in order to impersonate her and from then on bump shoulders and network with the upper echelon of the fabulously well-to-due class system, whom I believe are responsible for putting the cameras in my eyeballs and sending me subliminal messages we in the industry call synchronicities through a YouTube channel of a guy from Papua New Guinea who unsuccessfly tries to review the satisfaction, durability, and vibrational speed in kilohertz of each and every dildo known to man in order to arouse and tempt me, which makes it feel like I'm being commanded to look at the near endless supply of sexy and invigoratingly androgenous, porcelain skinned beauty of petite trans teens with dicks so big that they make jupiter look like a ball bearing, y'know, as I said despite it all being a bit much, I'd say.