Miley Cyrus strips down to nothing except a short bleach blonde haircut, gaudy metallic, diamond jewels, and dark nail polish. In an article W Magazine is calling ‘My Oh Miley’, the disney child star turned scandalous Hollywood starlet talks candidly, giving readers a raw look at the woman she’s become.

“I don’t love kids,” a tired Cyrus tells me the night before the concert, ashing a cigarette. We’re in her living room, sitting in front of a white stone mid-century-modern fireplace. There are three fireplaces in her mansion in the hills overlooking Los Angeles, which is sequestered behind high gates and monitored by countless security cameras. The fire throws shadows across Cyrus’s languorous form, now draped over an uncomfortable-looking Tulip chair. A black and white striped Chanel T-shirt hangs slack on her thin frame. With pageboy bangs falling over her makeup-free face, the performer looks vulnerable, childlike. Only the word bad in bold red on her right middle finger—one of her 21 tattoos at last count—betrays the puckish impresario she will be onstage the next night. She has just turned 21.

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