affame_le_geant_who_she_was fyn gula seeing that the sugar girl is about to be attacked by an animatronic, three-legged white cat and a chihuahua with a vengeance, let us pause for a moment and ask the following questions: who is the sugar girl? where did she come from? her parents were shadow movements she thinks she saw. she sucked air from tasteless cold formula. plastic nipple with a scissor-cut opening. too big. she used to choke and learned to hate what one needs to love. tears dried on her face and she played games with herself to see how far her tongue could reach. salt became her favourite taste. it made her thirsty for attention and stung the emotional wounds that never would heal. she drew pictures with crayons melted in the sun. dragons eating her flesh. red rain falling from a crying sun. she cut the heads off barbies and beat her stuffed animals until the stuffing dropped like snow. food came along and lied to her, said it'd be her friend. obesity forced her into lonliness. anorexia taught her to see her image in a funhouse mirror. bulemia became her work-out program. she never had any educaton to speak of, just a little articulation of the neglected heart. she made c's in junior high by sleeping with greasy-haired teachers that smelled like wet cigarettes. then, pregnancy. three times. the clinicians in homewood's family planning center couldn't explain her erratic periods. "no, it's not the abortions." they wrote her another script and she ate them all like tic tacs. numb was always better. in high school, she floated in a sky. her man-in-the-moon was the devil and she learned to hide from the happy sun. nietzsche was her god. henry miller was her idol. she used the pages of the bible to light the fires of cynicism. she burned crucifixes to warm her freezing asceticism. she tied garbage bags with rosary beads. she started her own anarchist rag with a couple soHo bohoes that ran a performance art theatre. this anti-flag, non-conformist, self-published, underground newsletter ran interviews with powerpinocchios, sticker freaks, and ecoterrorists. there were misanthropic cartoon drawings, arthouse film reviews, record critques from lower east side beer-rock bands(karen o and yeah, yeah,yeahs), and black&white fotos of dead rats laying in cardboard rolling rock boxes in the back of a gardener's old-pick up truck. the day she discovered the marox pass and entered kemulya, crossing from this world into that one, she was laying on her back in a hollowed out log. it was raining. there was a place for her in the kingdom of broken glass. just like there is for everyone. 021206 ... . . 080323 what's it to you? who go blather from