i only care for people who care. though people who don't care can hurt me and humiliate me.

i remember georgina had a long braid on her wall. it spooked me, and it had a kind of sacrificial, sexual frisson. it was her sacrificed girlhood, it was like a trophy of her hunted self. and her girlhood was sacrificed to the incestuous hunter. but then she hunted me, and she did not care, and she did not nor could honor me, for she was not a proud hunter, but a hunter of humiliation, of sexual pride destroyed, sex victims, of trophy animals to take, and to throw away. 
then i tell r. about her plastic quilts, and she says, body bags, and that is just what i thought then. she especially sought the black plastic corner store bags by my house where that kid was shot by a drive-by gang who called the victim on the street phone. i had a dream i told my shrink, about those quilts falling from the sky and covering me, a live burial.

makes me think of the film under the skin. of the girl who must hunt her victims with sex, but she is alien, and a machine inside. 

that all came from one hair of mine i picked up from the table and showed r. how she reacts to one stray hair. and that makes me think of the piece i got from chris ware, that he said he hated and threw away across the room, and sold to me for 35, about one strand of his mother's hair.

and so on.