I know what you're thinking. "Oh, the precious little moppet. She doesn't know what she's saying!" Or, perhaps, "I wonder if her mother read this essay before she submitted it to our contest?"

Please allow me to strip away your illusions. I know what "dead" is. I'm remarkably precocious for my age. I ought to be, what with my parents playing me Mozart in the womb and putting me on the waiting list for the prestigious Haute Ecole des Jeux des Enfants pre-preparatory school three years before they tried to conceive me. When Fluffy the class hamster suddenly turned from tan-with-white spots to buckskin, I knew it wasn't due to "hamster molting." It was because Fluffy's little corpse is mouldering down in the incinerator room where the teachers go to smoke pot while we're in gym—pardon me, interpretive movement—class. Fluffy's not coming back. Sort of like Daddy isn't coming back, though that was because he decided to run off with his secretary, for whom, oddly enough, he is able to maintain an erection.

Nor am I a stranger to violence. The boys in our class aren't allowed to point their fingers at one another and say "bang," but let me tell you, there are some people whose brains I wouldn't mind splattering around the schoolyard with a nine-millimeter Glock. That bitch Anastasia Silverstein, for instance.

Let me tell you what real violence is. It's when some girl—let's say, for the sake of argument, Anastasia Silverstein—is allowed to take one friend to see Hannah Montana and informs her coterie of cronies that they were no longer allowed to talk to me. Voila, here I am, a first-grade pariah.

For those who are still harboring some illusions of the innocence of childhood, let me introduce you to the dog-eat-dog world that the modern grade school has become. If you want to be in the right group, you have to have the right tokens of status that the International Toy Fair has spit at us for the season. When my brother Brendan was my age, all the junior stock traders were investing in Pokemon futures. Now it's those stupid Hannah Montana tickets, like the ones that Anastasia Silverstein's father plunked down five grand for. Mommy gets her Manolo Blahniks, Anastasia gets her Hannah Fucking Montana tickets, Mr. Silverstein doesn't get served with divorce papers.

And don't tell me it's not important or that I'll forget about this when I'm "all grown up." Without being in the right clique in grade school, good luck getting invited to the good parties in middle school, and then just try getting the part in the high school musical, getting onto the soccer team, and getting into Harvard. Those admissions officers have been bred like bloodhounds for six generations to smell "loser." And just try keeping up that 4.0 grade-point average: Studies have shown teachers don't like the unpopular kids, either. Shit, girlfriend, you'll be lucky to avoid an eating disorder.

And so, let me reiterate: I would fucking off someone for Hannah Montana tickets. I don't even like the bitch's hoi poloi country-music BS. Nope, this is just for the bragging rights. And to rub that whore Anastasia's face in it.

So, come on, Disney. You must have made some enemies. Tell me who you want me to kill.