Isn’t it strange how it all happens? All my life I’d dreamt about the bright lights, the big city. You know, they tell you it’s going to be glamorous, and they tell you that you have everything, and no one tells you how lonely it’s going to be, and they don’t tell you, when you’re twirling in front of the mirror as a child, what the papers are going to say about you someday. ‘Cause they don’t tell you they’re buliding you up just to try and knock you down. But they haven’t yet.