Rock Star Hour

Cara is pretty but mean.

Boys are stupid. Argue with me about this. I dare you.

My friend Dave told me the other night that you can tell how someone is in bed by how they dance. Now, this amused me. I can say it made the dance floor incredibly interesting. I can't however, dance with Dave anymore. Hee.

Sticks and Stones is better than that JamisonParker EP after all. Upon further listening, the NFG album just gets more and more fun, while Notes and Photographs leans one more toward suicidal tendencies. I can't take it. It is one of the most depressing break-up works ever. There's a line in one of the songs that says something about knowing the taste of love and how it's like backwash, blood and cheap beer, or something. And there's another one that's like thank you for being the girl who made me hate blonde hair, and how I can't wait to make you hate me a little more. Jesus.

Unselfishness is a natural high. Like hiking or paint thinner. Homer Simpson said that one. God, I love that show.

I moved back into my sister's place Saturday. It's rad. It's nice to have a bed again. I don't have all my stuff, but I have more than I did when I had to keep my things in my car.

I miss my movies. Remember when I was all crazy and shit before I left for Seattle? I sold like 40 of them. I'm not even sure which ones. Really good ones, probably. I didn't get rid of any of my absolute favorites, like American Beauty, High Fidelity or Lost in Translation, but I sold my copy of Better Off Dead to my friend Steph. That really hurts.

I want to play chess, and I don't have anybody to play with. And if I did have somebody to play with, they'd probably beat me because I stopped carrying my board everywhere months ago. And last time I did carry it anywhere was when I lived in Austin, and the boys got beer on it. Or I did. Some drunk person did, anyway.

I feel so weird. I spent all day studying for my media and society midterm, and I don't feel any smarter. Just inarticulate.

Then I got back, and Wes and Renee had just bought The Butterfly Effect.

I was like, "I don't feel like watching anything that's going to make me think."

Then they said it wasn't a thinking movie. Just intense. So I watched it, and now I feel like I'd be OK with not talking to anyone or reading or doing anything for the rest of the day but type this nonsense or stare at a white wall for awhile.

Tomorrow I'm going on a fake date. It's not real because it's just not. My friends Ben and Karen have been trying to hook me up with their friend Brandon for a couple months, it seems like. He's interesting, but whatever needs to be there is not. Yet somehow Ben, and the way he is and has been for the four, five years I have known him, got me to agree to come. I think it was one of those things when they won't let you hang up until you say yes. Fuckers. Why do people do that? Great. Now, any of you who read this are going to know that tactic works on me. I don't even know why I'm bitching. That wasn't my aim, but I feel like I am. New subject.

An old friend sent me a message yesterday. The subject read "I hear you're pretty but mean." I was like, wtf. Then all the sudden that line seemed familiar, but I could not remember who used to say that to me.

Then all the sudden I did. Freshman year at UH. Someone wrote it on a bench outside the dorms. "Cara is pretty but mean." I still don't know who wrote it, but then all the guys I hung around with started to say that to me. "It's OK, Cara. You're pretty but you're mean."

If I remember correctly, that used to piss me off. At the time I didn't think I was pretty or mean. It wasn't until after I got the sexy short haircut and dyed my hair blonde and started wearing dresses and going to poetry readings that anyone paid attention to me. That and the drugs, and how I almost instantly knew everyone on campus the morning after Transit.

Anyway, that made my day. Turns out one of my friends is back in town and wants to play catch-up. I usually hate that kind of thing, but it might be fun.

I learned about a new painter this week. Not a new one, a dead one, but one that's new to me. Amedeo Modigliani. I read an article about him in Smithsonian while I was at the dentist waiting for my sister Thursday. She got her wisdom teeth out. All four of them were impacted, poor baby.

Anyway, I want to learn more about Modigliani. Lots more. I like his paintings, but I am very interested in him. He loved life. And he lived like he loved. At 14 he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. He spent the rest of his life trying to live it like he meant it. He died at 35. His lover, eight months pregnant, jumped out of a window the next day. The article had a portrait of her he had done just months before he died. I don't remember her name.

Ever wonder why it takes something so momentous such as a life-threatening disease to scare people into living?

I had one once. So I sold half my shit and bought a one-way ticket. If I could buy everyone one, I think I would.

But that ticket was my life. That's what I bought. My golden ticket. And I believe that everyone has one. It's up to them to find it. The challenge is that you can get so wrapped up thinking about it that you can miss it completely. Only, I don't think you can miss it. Of course, you can make a mistake. But then you just have to wait patiently for it to come along again. And it will. It just might look a little different the next time.

Disclaimer: Upon completion of this post, I reread to find that I may have presented myself as an ex-heroin junkie. That is not the case. But it is quite hilarious if you read it in that light, I think. Oh, man.