I live for the applause - or the opportunity to scoff the last jam doughnut...

Having eagerly slaved myself for an hour on my fast, Sims 2-infested laptop to gather some sparkler-themed ideas and leap out of my not-so-comfortable chair with a feverous excitement when I click the all-final publish button since I set up this rarely-viewed blog a mere fortnight ago, I'm sure that if you have found a five minute break out of your ever-so-busy timetable to check out my articles and or even dare to become the very first person to leave a hastily-written comment, you will have slightly picked up the gist that my ambitions are, well, leaning towards a certain career which would bring my childhood dream to spectacular, Technicolour life.

As if I need to pick up a second-hair pair of 3D glasses to get a more colourful experience in life when I can spend literally all of my free time - when laugh-out-loud articles featured in a newspaper, otherwise known as a complaining haven for those who forgot to record the latest murder in Eastenders, cannot grasp its hold over my fidgeting form whilst laughter takes complete and utter control over myself - writing to my rapidly beating heart's content, discovering new thrilling subjects to bring up and slowly develop an opinion which hasn't been tainted with somebody else's or be led astray by biased representations of need-to-be-heard facts.

In all honesty, quietly closing the door in my small, yet nicely cosy bedroom and searching for inner willpower (not to be mistaken with will.i.am's new album; stumbling across the Top 40 a few weeks ago has since revolutionized my 80s hits world with chipmunk-sounding beats and even worse, ghastly disastrous vocals) to produce a self-satisfying piece of art, displayed for all the world - i.e whoever has managed to discover it, as I have made no effort whatsoever to promote the blog as of yet (laziness scores the first goal encore!) - has garnered an astonishing confidence inside myself, which makes me remark with bewilderment as I'm blown away with its empowering feeling.

Although I entered the world with the ability to chat ten to the dozen about Bratz dolls' outfits, which made itself apparent from a young age, I have the tendency to retreat into myself because my natural shyness - a normal, average trait in tons of people, particularly as one hits the raging, all-guns-blazing teenage (or wilderness, if the smell of freshly-cut grass seems more appealing than a slice of homemade apple pie) years - can take over all of a sudden, usually without a single warning.

Half of the time, I seldom realize that my mind has invaded a spa-like retreat until somebody picks up on my muted body language - I guess that it is just the way I was created, isn't it? My quietness sometimes reminds me of my beloved pet cat, Jerry, who, despite barely getting a meow in about his feelings unlike his overly-talkative brother, Tom, still displayed as much affection and heartfelt love through the power of a constant, vibrating purr - if only my body was capable of performing such an action! Getting stuck into a certain lesson, such as attention-absorbing French or top favourite English, transports me to a world far different to my own, despite the fact that I don't exactly know where that 'world' is. No matter how many times I roll as many awkward-sounding French verbs off my exhausted tongue (try pronouncing Rhianna's name in French; r quickly becomes a dreaded letter, doesn't it?), my nose is unable to sniff an imaginary bakery in the middle of a quaint, Emmerdale-style village seemingly a million miles away from the bustling, Greggs-packed town in which I currently live.

Yet, when I sit down in my chair and stop placing my blue-as-a-berry eye on the punk-inspired Hello Kitty slouching on my desk, all of my timidity floats out of myself as I type my thoughts and see them come to glorious life on an electronic screen - without words flowing from my fingertips and ideas forming in my Jane Eyre-obsessed mind, there is no LikeATeen. Or teenage girl with a heavily-made mask covering her dot-like spots on a reddened complexion. Writing is - and, as long as I willingly get off the sofa and make an honest effort, will always be - the essence of my soul and main reason for my being.

Do you want to find out why so many alleged celebrities and dazzling Hollywood stars fall to the bottom of the heap once their careers reach the end of the road? A profession such of their own is not one to keep their hearts pumping for a lifetime when the industry in which they work is constantly evolving and thriving for the best; although writing is of a similar style, it can hold you together and prevent yourself from unravelling like a half-wrapped present by expressing the thoughts that race quicker than Usain Bolt's legs in your mind. And as for opinions? The greatest award of typing away in your own imaginary fantasy - mine often features characters from the future characters who have not yet discovered a way of getting onto paper - and travelling into the depths of yourself; only one person can dictate or realize how you may react to a particular subject or person, so let's hear a round of hand-slapping applause for the answer: you. Even in the past year, I've picked up more lessons about the workings of my mind and how I choose to react to certain events and manner in which others treat me. And I still reckon that I would never have coped half as well without my laptop by my side; a loyal companion whose endless surge of power carried me to the screen of a Microsoft Word document.

So, as I have now discussed how much joy that writing brings to my life and overcoming my slight timidness, let's leap over to the main topic: dreams. Er, having written in such an eager tone about creating words and forging paths of my own, I doubt that Einstein will need to be resurrected a fortnight after Halloween to unveil the long-awaited response: a career in the media, ideally as a journalist, is a dream I intend to fulfil and pursue the moment after the curtain draws on my education in a few years' time. OK, not all dreams see the light of day, which can be utterly heart-breaking for some, and I must appreciate the well-known fact that media is a pretty hard industry to break into, but if I'm strong enough to successfully crack open the shells of almonds and pecan nuts whilst pinching my nail once, surely nothing ought to prevent me from living the dream for which I so strongly yearn?

Even if it soon transpired to be a false reality and no job was hardly ever going to be given to my awaiting hands, my mind has firmly agreed on my Plan B (once again, I do not listen to the singer! What on earth is it with wordplay and musicians?): become a lawyer. Sure, some may take the view that law gives the impression of sending even the most tiresome baby into a deep sleep, but I, on the other hand, have formed a great relationship and respect for it whilst I study it as part of my schoolwork. Or, if Sky News ever wish to contact me, a job as both a law correspondent and journalist would work out marvellously - in other words, a match made in heaven (and my dreams)!

Who knows what may come of my aspirations, but I aim to remain with them as long as my eyes are not blinded by stupidity or a sudden yearning to appear on a televised singing content, pouring my heart out in a damning rendition of Like a Prayer (who would even want to pray for the stud-wearing teenager with a voice as choked as a helpless cat's yelp?). I hope with my fingers crossed that there will be enough room for me to make a splash in the media industry - although I daren't attempt to appear too ambitious, I'd love to admit that I have some great plans up my tie-dyed sleeve.

Without dreams, needed hope and lifting aspirations would leave the world without anything to look up to and what a very depressing existence it would be for its inhabitants. Hopefully, good timing and a dash of luck will be enough to secure my position as a writer, performing my favourite hobby - and, in certain ways, lesson - for a living. Not what you would expect a so-called average teenager to think about, is it?