Don’t Speak. I know just what you’re saying. Icon of my pre-teenhood, diva of long gone ska pop, harajuku lady, hollaback girl and Voice chair. Unless you are moving on to Tony Kanal I do not condone this conscious uncoupling. I watched you continue to play with Tony, his brooding looks never far from your shimmering starlet self. Back then Southern California and the rest of America wept for you. Yet you endured. Following blue polka dot dress and peach you found happiness with husband Gavin Rossdale (whose looks far surpassed his musicality). Motherhood suited you; you became the cool mom to Kingston and the other two, the subject of tabloid fodder. I’ve been watching Gwen. I’d look longingly at your pictures in US weekly, dressed fashionably with an insane physique caring for your fauxhawked offspring. Husband Gavin of ‘Glycerine’ fame never far away, still maintaining soccer player good looks. And I’d think, Gwen, that you had it all That all the pain of early love was worth it. And now this. This shit is bananas.