When you're not the hero anymore/We thought we'd be feminists for a while -It would take more than a lightning-stroke To create such a ruin. Sylvia Plath, The Colossus We all have that one shot. Without exception, we frame those wicked shop window heads and reflections and click. Most of us however, do not run out and hang ourself in a museum. Even if it is in Prague. This is not a poem, this is a fact. They blame it on one minor thing or another...a fender bender last summer, a broken tooth, nerve damage. No one says much for a very long time although they want to. No one points out the misery in the faces in the pictures. It's all set to music now. Over dressed mannequins shuffled like cards in a deck, Susie in spandex, Su Lin in red chiffon, Penelope in leopard skin replete with boa and Susie in mock drag holding a stuffed animal, Sue Lin in a red bikini, Penelope in bra and panties, some girl we can't remember in a skeleton costume, on and on like that. Picture after picture, shuffled, slide after slide and then, wicked shop window heads and reflections, shuffled with a bit more lighting, night club shots in the girls room shuffled with capitalism's witty detritus here and there and lakeside, little puddles, girls pretending not to be sex objects but pout posing all the same, standard emo pinup, no pick up lines here. Living in the shadow of her Colossus but trying to ignore it. We do not however hang ourself in a museum. We try to be a little happier because no one has had their mastectomy yet.