Imagine. It's your first landmark birthday, and you've after informing the world that you're getting a pink Mercedes. Then your bemulleted father announces this:
"She didn't want a Mercedes, she wanted a recording studio. She just wanted a place to record there at the house. She's been writing a lot of songs, a lot of really great material. It's a great place for us to get up there and work out some tunes and sing."
Jesus, Billy Ray, why don't you just chain your sixteen-year-old to the mixing desk and be done with it? Wasn't it enough that she was working on her birthday? If she were your average teenager with your average job, would you make her cycle round the mansion flinging newspapers into every room? Or delight her with her own deli in which she could make sandwiches and milkshakes for the neighbours? Gee, I wish I got a cash register, a scanning machine and a urine soaked mop for my sixteenth *stares into distance, wistfully*
Upon hearing the news that there was, in fact, no end to her working day, Miley said: "No-one's touching it but me. They'll ruin it. It's gonna be dope! I'm so stoked!" She then skipped to her bedroom and started clawing the poster of a pink Mercedes from the wall.
