The (insertpopularnamehere)

I am a child of Big Macs and Big Brother. My name is Chantelle; David; Paris; Brad; Whatever. I dance to the right music which judges have told me to like. I drink only the newest and brightly coloured drinks which have been sold to me. I write with vowels missed out of words so others may understand what I am saying. I am underage sex fighting over taxis drunk. I celebrate celebrity and scorn the faceless. I subscribe only to the charities that James Nesbitt and Lenny Henry tell me too. I bath and cleanse my self with Heat and Ok. I feel better about myself when reading that Jennifer Aniston has bad skin or that Britney Spears drops her spawn on the floor of a chauffer driven limo while holding a tequila sunrise. My phone has the latest ringtone from Jamster ironic or not. I laugh at Little Britain and my own humour derives from repeating the catchphrases to my work colleagues and friends. My contempt of normalcy is a contradiction because it is what everyone else views as normal. 9 to 5; 2.4; 24/7; 9/11, 7/7. I am numb to death and pain. I watch the news for entertainment. The adverts it shows for the gradual extinction of the human race is pornography for me to jerk off to. I enjoy seeing John Snow’s ties and I applauded the death of Princess Diana. Crime Watch is a soap opera and Channel 5 documentaries are brilliant unwitting social commentaries. Last night the pet dog of the same breed as Paris Hilton’s that I bought was stamped to death with my faux snakeskin loafers purchased from Topman on their store card.