You're a teenager not Nelson Mandela.

Essays and miracles are what I feel are expected of me on a daily basis as a student and a teenager. Making a mess of my bedroom? I'm flawless. Tweeting about how emotional Sherlock was? I could be a professional.
From the moment you start GCSEs, grenades are thrown at you with the pin out. You have to collect every single opportunity and find a way in or out before the whole thing blows up in your face. On top of all that we're expected to go to that amazing party, revise for everything, make time for family, tidy our rooms, exercise, learn the flute and tie ourselves in knots just to please everyone else. The media tell us we're reckless, drunken, socialites who spend our lives smoking weed, doing neknominations and getting pregnant. This Buzzfeed article gives a list of why, in actual fact, our generation is way more boring than ever before. Our parents were probably on far more drugs than we are and rebelled far more than we do.

The best trick performed at my secondary school was creating a collective hum whilst the whole school photo was being taken. I nearly got suspended for walking to the local sweet shop during school hours.When rebelling against the new headmaster we taped passport sized photos of the previous headmaster to various places around the school, including a poster of Mohammed Ali. No harm was done, no consequences, no success.
My parents have far better stories from their teen years than I ever will. I don't have time to run riot, drinking on hill tops, sleeping over in abandoned buildings or climbing on different roof tops. My to do list grows longer with every coursework assignment I must write, classic book I should read. The worst thing I'll do on a Tuesday night is eat cake in front of the first season of Game of Thrones.

If you're a parent reading this right now, go on twitter. If you read any teenager's twitter I guarantee you will find at least one tweet that complains about the sheer amount of miracles we're required to perform every day. Turn water into wine? Turn three books into a three thousand word essay whilst riding a bike up Mount Everest and reciting Hamlet cover to cover.
As the title says, you're a teenager, not Nelson Mandela.

Strangers on a Bus: A Study.

Buses are unreliable, smelly, full of germs and bloody inconvenient at times. We're all strangers on a bus but it occasionally leads to a rare occurrence. In England, with our stiff upper lip and our public introversy, we rarely meet and greet people on public transport apart from tutting at some miscreant youth who pushed into a queue. Yet, on one particular wet and nasty evening ride, I felt an almost collective annoyance on the crowded vehicle. The queues out of Guildford were building, the bus was half an hour late, floods further perilled our journey and it was stormy. I suddenly felt like I had a connection with these strangers on the bus. It is rare that we open our eyes and notice that strangers in the street or on public transport have lives as complex and varied as our own.
At the front of the bus sits a middle aged man in a suit with a briefcase. His hair is silver. I assign little details. I imagine the life he has. He is a banker with a wife and a son who has just left home. He has just started a job at a new branch. He is taking the bus because the parking is a nightmare. Usually his wife would pick him up from town but she is on a girls holiday in Venice.
Sitting behind me is a boy of about sixteen, sitting on his own. He has just met up with a girl he really likes in town. He is wondering whether to text her or not. He is the oldest sibling and has two little sisters. His dad is a famous actor but he doesn't like to tell people because he doesn't like the attention.
An elderly woman sits to my right clutching a hand bag. She's been to see her daughter for coffee. She lives on her own in a flat with two cats called Molly and Socks. She likes to watch Downton Abbey, drink Earl Grey and complain about the weather.
I wonder if any strangers on the bus look at me and wonder what my life is like. Do they think I'm rich, poor, middle class? Do they wonder about what house I live in? Or what jobs my parents have? Or my habits and my hobbies? My family and my friends? But when I think of all the facts about my life, how complex they are, I don't think I could ever get any facts right about others. There are infinite possibilities of what anyone's life could be like. I try to look for clues, like their clothes and their age, their possessions or their facial expressions . But the truth is, you can never truly judge someone merely from their appearance. That's what truly fascinates me. It means that you could be sitting next to the long lost relative of Henry VIII and you'd have absolutely no clue.