Foolishly, I long for the days of my childhood when Hannah Montana’s mind-emptying lyrics did not pervade through the home like a sick stench, bruising the once delicate summer atmosphere, making the pasta sauce seem like pulpy, red vomit, and the lemon curd a urine goop collecting like dead dreams on the counter. I cannot convince them to poke their heads outside and take view of the warm afternoon, to observe and appreciate its slow transformation, the delicate, light-footed breezes falling away to allow for night to settle, the sun falling back like a souffle. Instead, the Internet has hooked them and so comforted they are, by its sweet-smelling breath and large, blinking eyes that they neglect their childhoods, not even turning around to wave two sloppy farewells. Foolishly, I long to change things, the longing itches my toes and the back of my neck, tugging me into a state of endless discomfort, during which I contemplate life and its meaning, such black-hole question for a young girl such as myself, but it always happens when I’m confronted with the epitome of loneliness, of emptiness--a hole-ridden Hannah Montana tune, short-lasting, awake for only the summer before it is pulled into a deep sleep. And the girls grow up. They are affected by the summer tunes without even knowing it, perhaps they wink at their startling images in the mirror, stringing together a story of love at first-glance, when a boy will be marveled by their endless, shimmering legs and their fleshy pink lips. Foolishly, I look back on days, pebbles pitched into a nearby stream, the earth’s gurgling, bubbling smells below my feet, and the luxurious bird-songs that erupted our worlds, how young and carefree--but never careless--were we.