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“Taylor Swift,”

Hugh Behm-Steinberg

You’re in love; it’s great, you swipe on your phone and order: the next day a Taylor Swift clone shows up at your house.

It’s not awkward, it’s everything you want.

She knows all her songs, and she sings them just for you.

When you put your Taylor Swift to bed (early, you got a big day tomorrow) you peek over the fence into the Rosenblatt’s yard, and the lights are blazing.

Your best friend Tina has three Taylor Swifts swimming in her pool.

She has a miniature Taylor Swift she keeps on a perch, a Taylor Swift with wings.

You’re so jealous.

She’s not even paying attention to them

she’s too busy having sex with her other Taylor Swifts,

they’re so fucking loud it’s disgusting.

You hate Taylor Swift…