I blame Paris Hilton

For making me wait in club line-ups filled with identical Mystically-tanned women whose hip-bones jut from their low-slung jeans like prehistoric weapons and whose hair has been tortured and bleached to a colour not found anywhere in nature and straightened until it's the texture of hay and then shined up with a mountain of serum.

For making me wait in line-ups with girls whose pastel cell-phones are so imperative that I believe eventually humans will evolve to the point where baby girls are born with cell-phones already attached to their ears.

I blame her for an entire generation of people who think that a deep conversation revolves around the subject of how much money a guy makes and what time is the fucking cab going to be here, bitch?!

I blame her for every g-string I am exposed to on a scrawny faux-tanned ass, for every tube top, every prairie skirt, every crotch-flashing mini, and for every nasty cotton-candy pink concoction on the streets right now. I blame her for Hello Kitty purses, and for women who carry designer dogs in Fendi bags.

I blame her for the fact that men seem to think that Barbie is real. Or interesting, for that matter.

I blame her for the fact that women like Daisy, on myspace's cool new people list, think the best first impression they can make is a tit shot.

In the words of my co-worker, Paris Hilton has a lot to answer for.