Kayla Rae Thornsburg



The morning bus ride to the studio was always the worst. I stared at my reflection in the window and articulated the bun on the top of my head, pulling bobby pins out of my clenched teeth to secure my hairdo. I was dreading class. Ms. B had recently made me aware that, while I could put on a captivating performance, my turnout sucked, and so did my arch. The combination of the two was causing severe tendinitis in my knees, and my feet were taking an extra beating. Already, I’d twice had toe surgery. I got to thinking that after thirteen years of blood, sweat, and tutus, I wasn’t exactly sure why I was dedicating myself to ballet anymore. I also got to thinking about how badly I needed a coffee.
I got to the corner of Seneca and 2nd Avenue and filed in line off the bus and into Starbucks where I couldn’t help but notice the glass case glowing next to me. It was filled with fresh doughy bagels, cupcakes that oozed frosting, and scones covered in a glittering glaze. Foods that Ms. B always blamed when one of the girls in my class got her period or grew a pair of tits.
“Hi, welcome to Starbucks! What can I get for you?”
“I’ll just have a tall skinny vanilla latte, please.”
“Will that be all for you today?” The barista’s cheery smile and cheesy demeanor irritated me. I glanced again at the illuminated case. Each baked treat laughed out loud at the leotard that clung to my body like a cancer.
“Yep, that’ll be all,” I replied shortly while fumbling through my purse for my wallet. My fingers grazed the small Tupperware container that held my breakfast: nine almonds and a sliced apple. Bird food.
Next thing I knew, I was in the coffee shop bathroom. I tore out of my leotard. My tights were suffocating so I ripped those off, too. The bun that I had so carefully put in place became non-existent as my hair tumbled down my back. Everything went in the garbage, including my $200 pointe shoes.
It’s been eight years since I was inside a ballet studio. My permanently demented toes and achy knees are a constant reminder of the passion I once had for dance. I truly miss it.
But I’m a writer now. I can eat whatever the fuck I want.


NEW YORK, NY - MAY 06:  Miley Cyrus attends the Costume Institute Gala for the "PUNK: Chaos to Couture" exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art on May 6, 2013 in New York City.  (Photo by Larry Busacca/Getty Images)
PROBLEMS: Mediocre music videos, disturbing pedophilic photo shoots with photographers such as Terry Richardson, not to mention the HORRENDOUS performance delivered at the VMA’s, which included but was not limited to:  juvenile teddy bear props, unflattering costumes, repulsive reptile tongue gestures, and worst of all, the creepy foam hand that literally had FINGERNAILS. GAG.
Okay, let’s flashback to the night that I sat around my laptop with a few of my sisters in my sorority house, watching your first music video for your new album Bangerz, “We Can’t Stop.” The video played, our jaws dropped, and from that moment on, I had poison to spit every time your name came up in conversation.
I used to love you. Even when your Disney days were coming to an end, your long luscious hair and fun, pop songs like “Party in the USA” continued to get my booty shaking. You even had your delicious boyfriend, Liam Hemsworth, following you around for a hot second. And then your twenty-year-old ass had to cave into your bullshit lingering teenage angst, and metaphorically scream “fuck the world” while chopping off all of your hair, bleaching it brittle.
RIP long luscious locks.
The other day, I grabbed my little red ear buds, plugged them into my iPod, and downloaded the rest of the Bangerz beats, just because I was curious. I had vented so much about my hatred for you that I had forgotten why I fucking care. I hadn’t taken the time to give the rest of your album a chance because I was so peeved about what you had already done with your new singles…and your hair. While waiting for the songs to load, I decided that I was going to screw around on Pinterest and about ten minutes later, I caught myself seriously jamming to whatever was bursting from my headphones. Like SERIOUSLY jamming: head bobs, shoulder shimmies, you name the dance move, I was probably doing it right there in my chair. What is this song? I pushed the button to illuminate my iPod screen: it was playing your album. I had been rocking out to the song #GETITRIGHT, one of the many catchy ballads Bangerz boasts.
Damn, some of these songs are so good.
And that’s the thing; some of your music is actually worth listening to. Fuck you Miley for distracting the world from the actual talent that you have. And that skinny-ass-white-twerk of yours is not the talent I am referring to.
You have gone all out trying to shock the world with your new vulgar image. In fact, your reputation has become infamous and you have metastasized to the point that there isn’t a social media outlet that will leave you alone. But what have you done to shine light on your actual music?
The answer is NOTHING. As much attention as you are getting, whether good or bad, it all revolves around your personal life and personal choices rather than the music you are producing. You have been interviewed by highly esteemed publications such as Cosmopolitan Magazine, Rolling Stone, and Harper’s Bazaar, but none of the articles mention Bangerz for more than a brief sentence or paragraph. Instead, they ask you about your love life, breaking away from Disney, or your recent retina-burning shenanigans.
In a recent interview with Cosmo, you were asked the question, “How did you feel about the celebrities who dissed your VMAs performance?” You decided to respond with this statement, “I don’t really care. I think everyone would have given anything to be me at that moment.” Hmmm. I bet you all of the money in your outrageously large bank account that the abhorrent look on Will Smith’s face as you were humping Robin Thicke’s leg like a desperate unneutered puppy was not one of envy.
Miley, if you ever read this, just know I could have probably let it all go if you still had beautiful hair tumbling down your back.
And NOW I know why I fucking care. It’s your hair; your gorgeous fucking hair just cut off your head and pitched into some grimy garbage can. And now you’re just gross with your gross tongue and your gross wrecking ball and your gross foam finger and your stupid gross bleached bald head.
What does that all say about me?