I cannot even begin to define the feeling that soars through my veins each time I am innocently skipping through TV channels and all of a sudden bombarded I’m with the image of Miley Cyrus “movin’ her hips like yeah” (What does that even mean?) I can only describe this sensation as a dense combination of disgust, intolerance, anger, fear and though it sickens me to the core, jealousy.

Why the fuck am I stuck at school wrestling with quadratics when Miley “I’m just asking to be punched in the face” Cyrus is making millions from dancing like a demented stripper? 

Sitting perched on another branch of the Disney family’s ultimate brat pack are the Jonas Brothers who, if I were given the opportunity, would quite casually push in front a moving bus. I don’t care if they’re ‘hawt’, they are a disgrace to teenage, blood-related, musical trios who blitzed the scene way before them (ie. Hanson, marry me). 

My simmering fit of rage becomes aggravated yet again when I find myself running like Napoleon Dynamite’s little sister (if ever a creature were to exist) to the train station every afternoon, because the sheer weight of my schoolbag leaves me in dire need of a chiropractor. I think to myself, whilst I am on the brink of paraplegia, the Jonas Brothers are probably sitting on Oprah’s warm, chiropractic sofa discussing their recent hit single entitled, ‘Today I grew my first pubic hair”. 

Quite frankly, I am pissed. I feel like I’ve drawn the short straw of adolescent normality. In the grand scheme of things, I am just an angry girl with short legs and an affinity for scrabble. 

Despite this, at least one is able to take solace in the fact that I am ultimately insignificant during these awkward years of hormonal retardation. My life will not be forever haunted by the lingering ghost of those raunchy photos I took of myself being a promiscuous gal on self-timer – Mi-Cy, on the other hand is not in such a fortunate position.

So, instead of punching walls and wishing it were you whose lack of musical talent was recognised by Disney, why not turn your anger into amusement? Gather a group of friends and place bets on which Jo Bro will be the first to enter rehab; buy the Hannah Montana soundtrack and use the disc as a Frisbee; or if you’re feeling particularly bitter, why not start a group on Facebook called, “Wow! I can’t believe Justin Bieber is actually gay” and simply witness the lives of twelve-year-old girls crumble before you. The possibilities are endless, so get creative and restore my sanity and to a greater extent, my faith in humanity.