For fear of living in regret, I've changed from when since we first met.

Mmkay, sorry for the delay. 'Tis summer and I would like to seize all opportunites while they're still running around in neon-coloured clothing.

Ooh, that little bit of imagery brings me to my point of blogging at all.

I'm sure everyone knows what a prostitot is. A bratty kinderwhore? No..? Well, it's a prepubescent girl with a chip on her shoulder reserved for Paris Hilton's chihuahua and a lack of clothing (i.e. a tank top and a miniskirt that seems more belt-like). Oh, and what is lost in clothes on these girls (since, let's face it, it's usually girls) is made up for in cosmetics, hair products and other such accessories.

Now, normally, this is shruggable. Who cares? Sure, they're 2, but what business of mine is it what they do..?

That is... until they make it my business.

Let's go through the numerous examples recently.

Exhibit A: I went to a theme park recently. Kids everywhere is fine by me. I really don't mind kids. Actually, whenever I see a particularly cute one, I feel my heartstrings tug and I wanna grab it and hug it and kiss it .. but I don't because imprisonment can come from that.

Anyway, along the path to a food place I was heading ... actually, it was a Dairy Queen, but that's technically food. Oh, what do you care... anyway, so food ... and there was a line. Highly expected.
Then I realized it was virtually all children, which would have been fine... but it wasn't.
Want to know why? Sure, you do! No... no, you do. ...Fine, I'll tell you anyway. There was this girl at the front of line who kept asking about calories. Yes, that's right, calories. "How many in this..? How many in that..? Does that come in a small..? Just regular...? You're sure...?" If you're concerned about the calories, how about not eating at a fast food chain where defrosting prepackaged combinations of artificial flavours, glucose, water, and lipids is considering cuisine?

And, to further this frustration, it wasn't just the girl. It turned out that her four feet nothing friends were all behind her, planning for pay for their ice creams (or fat-free yogurts) with nickels, dimes, and the occasional quarter.

So anyway ... 7 prostitots and 45 minutes later, I had ice cream. All was well.

Then ... a week later ...

Exhibit B: A movie theatre. I'm damn sure this girl, stinking of Can Can, was going to see Kung Fu Panda or Wall-E (both are quite snazzy, so don't hesitate to check them out), yet she had the sass to come up to my boyfriend (who was likely four times her height and more) and I and told us to, and I quote, "Get a room. No one wants to see that." (Oh, just for the record, we were hugging. He was holding me to keep me warm since movie theatres jack up the air conditioning so high a penguin could shoot ice cubes out its nostrils.) I was absolutely flabbergasted, to say the very least.

I could have done a couple of things: 1) I could have killed her, but imprisonment yet again hath not a pretty face; 2) I could have took her by her rake-thin seven-year-old neck (adorned with some sort of glam choker, I must add) and throttled it, screaming at her and informing her that her gloopy mascara was running into her Mary-Kate and Ashley glitter eyeliner; or 3) I could take the high road and ignore her.

So yes, damn classiness got in the way and I bit my tongue 'til it, more or less, bled.

Finally, Exhibit C: Fast forward 2 hours. Movie's done and we're leaving the theatre. An 18A movie, may I add ... and somehow exiting in the same row as us are three halter-top wearing rugrats whose foreheads barely reach my hip.

Does anybody remember when that guy (or girl -- whoops, girl power) just feet outside the dozen or so auditorium doors asked you to present some sort of identification to prove you could get into an 18A movie... or a 14A movie... or a PG13 movie..?

Hell, I still worry about that. (I'm short and I'm pretty concerned that I don't look capable of riding in the passenger seat, never mind driving the damn car myself.)

Anyway, that wasn't the important thing. These girls had yet to interfere with me. They were just perfectly nice albeit midget-esque 18-plus year olds.

Now, just as I exited the doors, back into the mixture of fresh air, faint aroma of popcorn, and the scent of gas fumes from the many cars leaving the parking lot, I was presented with a moral dilemma. Those three girls, discussing the movie, shared their reviews. "Well, Britney*, what did you think of the movie?" "It was the shit." "Yeah, it was trippy."
(*Name added, purely for effect.)

I'll admit, I let the girl who said it was "the shit" go. Because sadly, I've heard it before. Kids say the darndest things, Bill Cosby. But if anything was "the shit" to me, it would be going down the porcelain express rather quickly, not being viewed with admission cost.

However, "trippy" was a bit too far. The shit, in my opinion, is the equivalent of Winnie the ... well, you know. Everybody poos. They made a book about it to educate the young. The language is a little more in-your-face, but it's to be expected, considering "sick" is now an adjective to mean something's good. "Trippy", however, is a drug-infused adjective. Where did this girl learn this term? If it's from her parents, she should be living with someone a hell of a lot more responsible, but chances are, those friends she's with have said it before. I practically had to pull my boyfriend back from shrieking, "Do you know what you're saying, little girl?"

So, I'm not sure where to go with this, entirely ...

I'd like to blame Barbie, but she's been around since the fifties and not that many little girls have been running around in sequined thongs until recently. In the 70s, there was a lot of peace, love, anti-war rallies, and LSD. But that was more of the teens, young adults, and rock stars who were doing that. I have to wonder, was it the eighties, my favourite decade...? Could I blame Madonna for all of her banned videos?

I could, but I won't. There were more girls running around in legwarmers and shoulder pads -- dreaming of becoming Molly Ringwald most likely -- than there were first graders posing in their skeevies.

So somewhere between the nineties and now, we've established that prostitots, their padded bras, and their growth spurts to come will most likely be taking over the world when they graduate from tricycles and skateboards to Daddy's car.