All I need is just to breathe/ All I need is to believe/ Gotta have it/ Now I know/ Gotta have it/ Take it slow/ Some days/ Some times it just goes right/ Oh.

It's the moment when smiles and that teasing flash of cleavage no longer get you what you want. Sure, the calculated wide eyes used to play right, but being the nice girl who never goes past second somehow wore thin. They don't stare at you with the same lust as they used to. Against all your careful efforts, you've become attainable. They took the damn pedestal away.

You think you'd be relieved; no amount of denim-clad writhing you ever did on those car bonnets could make them look at you without those Madonna complexes steaming their virginal glasses. You had visions of being locked forever in that Lana Lang glass coffin of blind sexual worship and too much foundation, but now that you're simply meek Chloe to them, it's worse! The comfortable (read pathetically doormatted) best friend trap makes you just as untouchable, but with the former raw power of sexuality stripped away. You're safe, dependable. And it makes you seethe with rage.

This is the point in a girl's life when she's had enough. I know it well: pulling on the femme fatale gloves and jutting heels, jaded eyes set in a steely gaze and the need to scream the world into submission roaring in my veins. And so we find sweet little Holly Valance, the girl next door, writhing in sleazy neuveaux-electro joy with vampish triumph.

Oh yes!

If Harry was the imposter, then Holly tramples her vapid dreams with vivid neon stilettos. With a squeal of reckless abandon, she leaps onto that fur-trimmed chaise lounge and moans, throwing her body around in an exquisite haze of anger and pointed rebellion. This song has every roaring melody and look-at-me wail, each uncomfortably high-pitched soaring spike and thrusting pant that you could ever want. It's brash and overt, and a solar system away from peach sunsets out the back of the Kent farm and insipid loving looks in the direction of Mr God-I-can't-emote-in-flannel, Superman-in-training. (You could almost believe there was a life of sex without consequence and morning after moralizing to be had. Whoops. Sorry, you haven't left the WB yet)

I saw her on TV the other day, and oh, how the gods of pop are cruel once more, bringing her so low as to sell cheap return phone services in a zebra print bikini.

See the glory days here