This can be read as a pointed commentary on teenagers? tendency of a devoutness to Hollywood that replaces their own fantasies in favour of a never-ending stream of readily prepared desirable identities to be delivered into their own four pink walls at the push of a button to mix up and become that very glorious and tragic ideal that leaves so many mothers and fathers standing aghast before their once-so-sweet offspring ? some glam-punk, some grunge, a good pinch of Lolita, everything, in short, that is stored ?rebellious? and ?shocking? in the cliché drawer.

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