If had any respect or love for your sense of hearing, I wouldn’t expose it to this eardrum-burning, dead baby hooker shit from Manufactured Superstars featuring stumbling bag of queefs Parasite Hilton.
In that monotone, soulless, slut toddler voice of hers, Paris educates us about the new phenomenon (for 1999) called drunk-texting. Just like her “career,” sex tape and insides, this mess has a pulse rate of zero.
This is like if LMFAO got the life beat out of it with a flip phone and was left for dead in the alleyway behind a has-been club. If I tried to drunk-text this song to anyone, my iPhone would auto-correct it to read: STOP!
I know you hate me, because after listening to that virus of a song, you now have deflated anal warts inside of your ear holes. Maybe this dose of musical antibiotics from a real star will stop the stinging a bit.
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