It cannot be understated that normies are not people, they are cattle. Their opinions do not matter, they aren’t real. Everything they believe is just parroting the slop that gets force fed to them from institutional astroturfing.

Nobody actually likes Sabrina Carpenter. 
Nobody actually likes Taylor Swift. 
Nobody actually likes Spotify sponsored playlists and Top 40 radio tier slop.

All of these basic bitch mocha frappuccino lifestyle surface level preferences are the result of taking the disposable livestock 80% of the population horde and placing them in front of a little box that tells them what to think every single week.

There is a required number of instances in which an individual gets exposed to a meme, idea, or aesthetic before they adopt it as their own. The less intelligent or sentient the individual, the smaller their number becomes. The most basic level of “person” is at roughly 3-5 incidents of exposure before they decide they “like” something. 

There’s another number which defines their willingness to express their “opinion” to others. This number is how many other peers have expressed their approval of any particular thing. The lower the level of autonomy an individual has, the higher that number must be before they can comfortably risk judgement.

Sometimes something is so basic, forced, and saturated that its comparative mediocrity creates a beacon by which to anchor statistical certainty when determining whether that things purveyors are actually human beings or not.

Sabrina Carpenter is like a North Star which can be used to navigate whether or not a woman is sentient. If she likes Sabrina Carpenter beyond any bare mild enjoyment of formulaic pop slop, but rather to the point of being a Sabrinastan or expressing vocally how much she “ate” and or how Sabrina has her “gagged” then you can safely write her off as a nonperson.

Sabrina Carpenter fans are not people. They are not even NPCs, they’re white noise. They are 2D holograms looping 5 second animations of standing up and cheering before sitting down again. They are vague 16 pixel blobs to be dispersed into a crowd of thousands, millions. 

The existence of nonpeople serves to being an accoutrement to your life as background noise. When you interact with them, the sounds that come out of their mouth are generated by scripts. Their vocabulary consists of 200 words, farts, burps, and heavy breathing. Their emotions are a vague thin spectrum of discomforts and satisfactions. They see less colors than you can. Their understanding of the world extends to 2 mile radii before they have panic attacks.

When you’re friends with a nonperson, they have to do calculus in their heads on whether to respond to your messages. When you sleep with a nonperson, it’s somehow more debasing than just masturbating. When you reproduce with a nonperson, you play roulette with God on whether your children have consciousness. When a nonperson dies, absolutely nothing changes in the world.

Watching someone argue about Sabrina Carpenter’s capacity for playing a Disney Princess is like sticking my head in a toilet bowl to listen to the water cooler gossip between the bacteria in a fresh shit I just took.