When Andy Warhol coined the phrase “15 minutes of fame,” there is no doubt that he was looking into the future directly at Rebecca Black.

Unfortunately time has moved slowly for Rebecca, known across the country as the girl who sings “Friday” – the “worst song in the world” – and her 15 minutes are beginning to feel like an eternity. An eternity of shame and pessimistic notoriety.

For anyone who expects me to mercilessly tear Ms. Black down until she is a weeping, shivering pile of self-embarrassment, you are reading the wrong column. For anything resembling those people, go somewhere (anywhere) on the Internet.

…Or simply recite the first words to a friend: “7 a.m. waking up in the morning…” With that, you will get your instant anti-Rebecca fix. Just not here.

Don’t get me wrong. I hate everything about the song: too few acoustic guitars for my taste, not enough influence from Simon & Garfunkel, more subject matter about the disparity of isolationism and the degradation in contemporary society.

Instead, I wanted to drive a spike in my ear.

For me, “Friday” was no different from any other tween-pop song on the radio these days, and it made sense that some Miley Cyrus/Selena Gomez-wannabe would get a considerable amount of criticism (and $1 million).

What does not make sense to me is how much hatred is put on Black herself. For a country that focuses so much of its attention on blaming the media for causing self-esteem issues in teenagers, we certainly know how to raise the spirits of a 13-year-old girl whose only dream was to be a pop star.

Personally, I can’t wait until Rebecca gets her fairytale wedding, complete with mob of trolling protesters outside of the church, exclaiming in all caps that OMFG THIS IS TEH WORST WEDDING EVR!!!

I think back to when I was 13 years old and how devastated I would have been if the entire country unanimously despised me for achieving my goal of being the world’s youngest astronaut. All of those hypothetical years at Space Camp, only to welcome the mockery of an entire nation in return.

The thing is, Rebecca didn’t even write the song – and if she had, I would consider it decent for an eighth-grader. Yes, the lyrics are hilariously obvious (“Oh, I guess I forgot what day comes after Thursday…”), and the music video produces more groans than a pornographic movie’s plotline, but I’m not going to be the one to heave all of the blame onto a girl who isn’t in high school yet.

Really, was anyone expecting deep, introspective poetry when they heard the first synth notes or the auto-tuned voice? I wasn’t exactly expecting Bob Dylan-like lyrics myself.

All Rebecca’s parents wanted was to make their daughter feel like a star, and after paying $4,000 to ARK Music Factory, they got a single and a music video out of it.

That’s right, for only one year’s worth of rent, you too could be the next punching bag for America! Start saving.

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