A couple weeks ago, I was perusing the aisles of my local bodega, clawing for a brick of coffee that wasn’t months past its expiration date. During this pursuit, a pair of tweens came stampeding in, their muffin-tops spilling out over their denim cut-offs. They were yammering on about whatever it is tween girls talk about (boys, nail polish, and the UN’s plan to earmark $1.5 billion to boost agriculture across Africa and The Middle East) when suddenly “The Climb” by Miley Cyrus came on the radio. At this point, girl one turned to girl two and remarked, “OHMYFUCKINGGODISTHISMILEYCYRUS? IFUCKINGHATETHISBITCH I NEED TO LEAVE. LET’S GET OUT OF HERE.” Girl two tried to retain her composure, quietly offering, “Chill out.” But girl one groaned and made a series of grunting noises I didn’t realize the human throat was capable of generating. I was mortified.

True story.