Some girl called Brian and some guy called Kerry.... A z-list exposure marathon

As I trawl through through the disgusting aisles of dirt in the mind's eye supermarche, bookshop, drugstore, corporate whore, my soul, my goal.
A hundred and one new publications on reason, with no answer and just an open ended question, an understanding, grace and place, a solitude. A sale and bargain at £18.99, I have no answer and am barely alive.

They scream why? Oh why? is the threat of violence still so evident in this modern world, not some meaningful track by The Jam but something with thought, progression, meaning, not by some manufactured celebrity machine or by some caustic management company workhorse driven through the streets around Soho Square by a naked, statuesque figure with the latest haircut or tattoo, steed bound and virile and strong.

My story, My New Love, hybrid, tribryd, baby from my ex lover's dogs aunts baby's cousin, everywhere I go, I see the same celebrity couple air their dirty laundry on the covers of every magazine including Complete Gardener like they have no quarms or shame for their children that have yet to see the hurt, the damage that their peers, the loved ones that brought them into this world will have put their young images through.

Here is your daughter and here is my makeover, the truth about my new lover and about your new fiancee all over OK and HELLO for the price of a Snickers bar and look how happy we are without you, look how happy she is without you, she doesn't ask for your name on a night, she never asks where DADA is anymore, it's ridiculous and not funny anymore,

Oh, what the papers say

We’re caught up in the disarray

[Lars:]Ohh, what the papers say

We're caught up in the disarray.

[Tim:] Well'd you see their faces when we dropped the bomb?

[Lars:] Haha, Tim, let's play along.

Lyrics Courtesy of Rancid