Te amo, Selena.
Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night, in a panic sweat, with this horrible dream that my be-lusted Selena Gomez, so hot, so barely legal, such an amazing pretend singer, has sold her soul, not to mention her chastity, to The Devil’s Midget, and I try as I might to win her back, I can’t return her from the depths of shorty hell. It’s really and truly frightening.
But, today, I take comfort in the simple sweet sextastic of the young diva in a Miami mall, to the throngs of screaming teen girls (that’s another, much nicer dream I sometimes have but of which I dare not detail), just looking like the hot princess she is. The young woman whose feet I would bathe, whose body I would scrub, and whose father would have me quickly arrested. It all could be so perfect, Selena, if only we could drop that 90 pounds of excess dimpled boyfriend. Enjoy.
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