Here's a card for the next time you see an asshole you used to fuck!

Dear Internets,

After a break-up, I almost always regret having anything to do with my lover at all.
I wish a lot of things. Like that they had never been born. Or I had never been stupid enough to fall for their shit.
But, most fervently at all, I hope and dream that they will move the The Island.
The Island is a beautiful, magical place where I believe all of the men I’ve ever regretted fucking go to die. I assume that my

Let your ex know that you think they're a waste of time! Bring closure to your life with hatred!

staggering awesomeness prevents them from living a normal life. And after fucking/falling for me, they eventually waste away, until a friend of theirs tells them “Well, I hear a lot of the dudes who’ve met Alisa have this problem. There’s somewhere for you to go.” It’s a non-profit island, and they have support groups there for all of their horrible feelings about me that they can’t get rid of.
I know The Island has wi-fi because sometimes these embarrassing mistakes email me. Or Facebook me. Which is annoying. But not as annoying as it would be if these fuck-ups were loose on society.
So, I’m glad about The Island.
I’m glad they have each other. And I’m glad that I don’t have to see them anymore.
Maybe you don’t have The Island. Let’s face it, not everyone is awesome enough that they leave that kind of devastation in their Vaginal wake.
So, these cards can express the outrage you feel when you are confronted by your sexual mistakes in the flesh. You can buy them on my etsy site http://snarkycards.etsy.com.
Love,
Alisa
PS:  Remember! Snarky Cards are Post-Cards. They’ve got pretty pictures hand-painted (by me, Alisa) on both sides, and the words are typewritten with my Smith-Carona: Bob.

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr, and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up.

For the last few months, I’ve had a lot of Big Stuff happen. I was in a relationship, which messed with my identity. Because I haven’t had a relationship in about ten years. And it ended in a fiery explosion of suckiness. And then I was heart-broken. When things were at their best with Magnum, I was freaked, completely freaked out. “It’s like I spent the last 17 years building this brick wall, and he burst in and punched a hole through it.” I complained to Arlette. “That’s not true. You’ve been taking the wall down, slowly for the last few years. It’s a little more like you got it down from 10 feet to 3 feet high, and he came and kicked those bricks over.” She countered. I harumphed. I didn’t like that I was letting someone in that close. But I couldn’t help myself. I was in love with him. And I haven’t been in love since I was a teenager.

I know this doesn't really fit the post, but I like putting pictures in. And since this post is about my inner turmoil, I thought I'd show you pretty pictures of me. Hoping my boobs would ease the suffering of having to read this. Yes, I'm wearing clown panties.

I knew he would leave me. So did he. I just hoped that before he did, we would have some good times. And I would feel like I was good at it. The boy girl thing, I mean. I just wanted a little hope. Instead, he hurt me as hard as he could and then he left. In retrospect, I should have expected that he was the kind of person who hurts others because he’s unhappy. My parents were those kinds of people. And it would have been a lot to hope for that I’d gotten over my shit enough to date outside my type. We re-enact the most painful things that happen to us over and over again, until we realize that we can’t fix it. And then, hopefully, we move on.

The fact that I was in a relationship kinda fucked with me. The fact that I was broken-hearted rocked my world. For the last four months, I’ve been trying to put back together my sense of myself.

It’s been17 years since I’ve been hurt so badly. Men don’t hurt my feelings. They piss me off. I think that the fact of my pain was worst to me than the pain itself. I just kept thinking I’d made a terrible mistake. My friends were sympathetic, but in the end, they’d shrug and say “Well, yeah, DUH. Sometimes it doesn’t work out and you get hurt.” And then they’d keep talking. But I couldn’t hear whatever came after that. Because I was stuck. Alisa Kay Starr doesn’t get hurt. When a boy pisses her off, she goes out to the bar, and finds another boy to go home with, and she keeps doing that until she can’t remember why she liked the boy who pissed her off in the first place.

But that scenario was not this. I was mopey. And I couldn’t imagine sleeping with anyone who wasn’t Magnum. And I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself to get over it. I asked a few other people about break-up procedures and got nowhere. I wanted a ritual. Something to do with myself while I was waiting for time to do the thing that time usually does. And as I floundered for something to do, I began to question my identity more. I think I was just stunned that anyone got that close. And I felt like an idiot for letting Magnum in. All of which are normal feelings, according to the regular people I know. But they weren’t normal for me. And the fact that I was hurt made me feel like I’d made a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake. And the thing was, I’d waited for him. I never told him this, in fact, I haven’t told very many people this, Internets, but while I’m confiding, I might as well get it all out. I wanted to move last year. But some part of me knew that he’d be free, and we’d hook up, and so I stayed, waiting for him. That little voice in the back of my head, which tells me which cards to give which girl, and when leave for the bus (Alisa doesn’t have a watch. Alisa has intuition. God, talking about myself in the third person is kinda icky.) told me to wait for Magnum. So I did. And being with him gutted me.

This is my most popular card of all time. I don't need any intuition for this card. I just hand it to everyone.

So, naturally, I started to doubt my intuition. The thing is, I depend on my intuition a lot. Snarky Cards is based on it. I try to make as many smarty-pants decisions as I can. But a lot of selling my art isn’t based on the bottom line. Some of it is me, meeting someone, and 30 seconds later, coming up with a pile of cards that fit their life perfectly. People think I’ve read their mind. And I have. It’s my own little psychic trick.

If I don’t trust those instincts, I screw up. But more than that, I start feeling insecure, and then I really screw up. When I get insecure, that part of me that can figure out how you feel about your lover, or you father is operating without any kind of constraint. And so for no apparent reason, I start talking about how much better my relationship has gotten with my grandmother since she died. And your face crumples, and it turns out that your grandmother was the most important part of your life, and she died two days ago. No shit, that kind of stuff happens all the time when I’m not listening to my intuition. Obviously, making people angry/sad is not good for business. And stepping on other peoples feelings depresses and frustrates me. I’ve been able to pull things out of people since I was 11 years old. Being able to pull a grown-ups’ secrets out of them scared the shit out of me as a kid. It took me a long time to figure out what to do with what people tell me, and how to leave their stuff alone. So when I suck at it, it makes me feel 11 again. Overwhelmed by my lame psychic powers.

So, I felt stupid, and sad, and alone, and bad at relationships. And I thought seriously about giving up on Snarky Cards. Because if I can’t read people, I can’t sell. If I can’t sell, I might as well just go try to get a Real Job. And anyway, I am clearly no longer a slut. I don’t drink that much anymore. What’s the point of my tiny little career, anyway? And so on and so on. You get the point, the more I questioned myself, the less sense my life made.

Me and Arlette at our favorite bar in San Francisco

Which makes a lot of sense. My identity was completely changed by Magnum. It’s still changing, in a really big way. And that kind of shift is scary. I don’t think I started to be OK until Arlette came for the weekend. We were going to go out and take over Portland with our unified radness. But in the end, we had a slumber party weekend. We dyed my hair, and went to the goodwill, and Arlette made amazing food, and we talked about stuff, and watched the first season of Veronica Mars. And by the time she left, I felt a little more like myself again. We’ve been best friends for 8 years. And I think I just needed to be with someone I love, who loves me, so that I could feel like “Maybe I don’t suck at this. Maybe I don’t always make shitty decisions about love. Maybe it’s OK that I made a mistake with Magnum.”

And, of course, there’s Karate. Karate and I have been going home from the bar, off and on for the last year. Not seriously. Never more than once a month. But still, it’s the longest I’ve ever had any kind of sexual relationship. And Karate and I see each other at the bar at least once a week. We’re friends with the occasional benefit. In the wake of my Veronica Mars weekend, I think I was feeling stronger. Whenever I’ve been annoyed with the way things are between me and Karate, I tell him, and he thinks about it, and then he does what he can. It was late, and I’d had a lot of whiskey. “You make me feel like I’m good at this stuff.” I sniffled into my drink. He smiled. “You’re really good at this stuff.” he reassured me. From there he went on to say how I’m fucking beautiful. And how I make great art. And, in the end, he was just so nice to me.

The best thing about my relationship with Magnum is that I was so hurt afterwards, I had a hard time walking. He didn’t hit me. But he said some pretty terrible things to me before he ran away. And I think some of my identity un-hinging, was me realizing I just couldn’t be with assholes anymore. They’re my type. It’s my Daddy Issues. I’m always trying to make up with Jon. Not actually with him. Jon is an asshole. He has done and said some horrible things to me. He can’t fix a lot of the shit he’s done. No. My relationship with my actual father is over. And so I date assholes. I think when I was in my early twenties, I thought that it was love when a guy told me I was worthless. Therapy relieved me of that retarded notion. But as I got older, I think I really was trying to figure out if I could make it work with someone who treats me like shit. As practice. Hoping if I could win over an asshole, and get one to act right, I could take those asshole-taming skills back to my father, and give it one last shot. But with Magnum, I think it was just purely habit. And when it was over, and I was literally limping with heart-break, I realized, I have to give up assholes entirely. I need a lot of confidence and a good amount of peace of mind in order to do my job. And I can’t sacrifice any of that to a lover.

Which freaked me out further. I mean, I’m no longer a slut. I’m now a girl who has feelings. And those feelings can get hurt. And so, I can’t date assholes anymore. Some part of me just believed that I would never get laid again. No-one bitches about not getting laid as much as nice guys. It’s a little ironic that I was destitute, because all of a sudden I realized someone would have to be REALLY nice to me in order to get my clothes off. And I just didn’t believe that would ever happen. Maybe because I’ve never had a romantic relationship with someone who was really nice to me.

So, when Karate swept me off my feet, with his compliments, and his kindness, I happily followed him home. And sleeping with Karate again, really made me feel like it’s going to be OK. Karate is a great lover. So, I didn’t feel like I was trading anything in for the niceness of him. And it reassured me that I will have just as many nice lovers as I want.

Beauty and The Beast is still my favorite movie. I mean, she reads, she says what she thinks, she has brown hair, and she turns an asshole into a Prince. It's like Disney selling me my own story.

And, so I figured out that, yeah, all this shit is different. I’m loving differently. I’m letting people in. And that means that my ups and downs will be higher and lower. And I have to let go of this angry slutty girl I used to be. But if I were telling the truth on myself, I’d say that while I was that angry, slutty girl; I incessantly wrote poetry, and I lived for didactic feminist literature. I scrap-booked like crazy. And I was still sentimental as Hell. I really wanted a dog. And I over-identified with Disney movies. I was never adeptly described by two words. No matter how rad those words were. So maybe letting go of those two words is not the end of an identity.

So, I’ve come back to myself. I still like to give strangers advice. I still like to go to bars, no matter how much I drink when I get there. I still like to flirt with every man I meet, whether I go home with them indiscriminately or not. This last month, I’ve started to realize that I’m not ready to give up on Snarky Cards yet. And as my confidence grows back, my intuition comes with it. And I get a little better at all of it.

So, you can see why it’s been so long in between posts. I think that the last time I posted, I was in the middle of this. I wanted to wait until I saw my way out of it a

Me and my typewriter, Bob, and my tits, and my cards

little bit before I wrote about it. I’m still trying to scrape together enough money to move to Seattle in October, and so you might see me out selling at the bars. These days I tend to stick to my favorites: Gold Dust Meridian, Circa 33, North 45, 21st Ave Bar and Grill and my beloved Muu-Muu’s. So, if you want a Snarky Card, from a chick who is trying to pull her head together, stop by any of those bars on a Friday or Satuday night, and keep an eye out for my tits, which will be hanging out of whatever slutty red dress I’ve recently found at the good-will. I’ll happily show you the new shit. And with a $20 purchase, you get a free motor-boat.

Love,

Alisa

This weekend, I took some time off. There was a boy. And some weed. And I am waaaayyy more relaxed now.
And despite the fact that Im a little drunk off of the great sex I had this weekend, I am still a responsible person. For an artist. And I wanted to remind you that Snarky Valentines are in stores now! As well as online!
I hope they help you get laid!
Love,
Alisa Starr

Isn't Awesome Beautiful?

My name is Alisa Starr, and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. And on Sunday my brother and his gorgeous girlfriend Christina finally had their baby (which I will now refer to as my baby) Emilene! Here she is. Isn’t she fucking gorgeous? I wanted to name her Awesome. So, that’s what we’re calling her from now on.

I’m super-excited about being an Auntie! Joy and I (my sister) have all kinds of plans for her. We’re going to make her do sports, so she has really big self-esteem. And I’m thinking I’ll make a Snarky Kids Clothing Line for her. “All those boys are screwed!” Joy crowed into the phone, as I smoked a joint and she raised her wineglass to our niece. “They can try as hard as they want to, but from now on, our hearts belong to Emilene!” We sang together in unison. It was a wonderful moment, putting a final end to a decade long war between us. Apparently babies can smooth away all kinds of shit.

I’m an Auntie now. And I feel a wider range of feelings because of my newfound love. I’m not shitting you. Last night I was watching V, which now stars a baby. And I found that baby more adorable than I would have normally.Well, normally I would have been like “God, when are they going to stop using that baby as a prop?” But last night I was like “Wow! Babies are the best props in the world!”

She's beautfiul, right?

I don’t think I’m a coo-er. Or, I wasn’t, until Stephenie called to tell me that he and Christina were pregnant with Awesome. Ever since then, all babies have inspired me to make horrible baby coo noises. And I find all babies, even crying ones, adorable. I’ve been obsessed. I call once a week to find out what’s going on. After the first month of me calling all the time and suggesting names and shit, Stephenie  was like “Is this your version of baby fever?” And I think it might be. Niece-obsession.

Stephenie and Awesome

So, as a result of my newfound love, the Valentines Day cards don’t have as much bite to them as they may have in years past. Because I’m a nicer person. OK, that’s probably not true. I’m still a horrible person. But I have discovered love. Usually it’s hate that makes me strong, but I think this baby-love thing might actually be making me more Awesome too. You can check out the new V-D cards on my etsy site. And you can find more pictures of Emilene, and me on Facebook.

Love,

Alisa

My name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up.

I’ve been remiss in writing to you. I’ve also kind of sucked at keeping to this schedule. It’s become more of a guideline. And even though Christmas is over, I still find myself drowning in work. It seems that Valentines Day is just as Challenging as Christmas. Though, it’s only one day, instead of a monthly marathon of people buying shit, so the pressure doesn’t last as long. But it’s kind of a big card holiday. People expect Valentines Day Cards. It’s the one time in the year that my art has a purpose. It’s the one time of the year that I don’t have to explain myself as much. And I’m having the same old problem: too much work, not enough of me. And I find myself vacillating between frenzied work, and listless inability to do anything remotely work-related.

Totally inspiring, right?

I find myself re-reading Sara Paretsky’s VI Warshawski novels, which is always a sign that I’m feeling sorry for myself. I know that it’s really, really bad when I start re-watching Aliens. And I know that I absolutely want to do give up when I turn to Buffy. That’s how I fight feelings of wanting to give up. I watch Bitches Kick Total Ass Against All Odds. And at some point, I say to myself “Well, if VI can solve the mystery after someone cuts her face up, I can just make another 15,000 cards on my own.” or “If Ripley can kill that fucking alien, and protect that little girl at the same time, I can go without sleep for a night or two this week.”  Or “If Buffy can fight all kinds of evil, even though she clearly only weighs 90 lbs, I can totally figure out how to sell this new thing I made.” So far, we’re only at a VI Warshawski level of being overwhelmed. And I’m trying not to let it get to the Aliens stage. That’s harder to recover from.

So, I’ve decided to try to find an intern. I put up an ad on the Pacific Northwest College of Arts website. And hopefully, some nice art students who want to learn how to sell their shit will email me, and I’ll finally get someone to help me.  I can teach them how to sell their own shit, while they help me build my Snarky Empire. Soon I’ll figure out a way to pay my bills and take a day off, every week.

On the other hand, I’m really enjoying my life. Lately I’ve noticed that I’ve got a plethora of really good friends. And, I’ve been having sex with some nice guys. I’ve even gotten a couple of repeats, which is unusual for me. I’m trying to be OK with the idea that someone would want to have sex with me more than once. And I’m trying to be OK with guys I like liking me back. It’s not full-fledged dating, exactly, but it’s progress. And I’m pretty happy with all of the great penis I’ve been getting lately.

There’s one guy in particular that I think about a lot. I fell into bed with him by accident, but it turned out he had a lot of cool shit going for him. And sleeping with him made me feel like I might be making better sexual decisions. He’s probably more afraid of commitment than I am of intimacy. When you have two people too busy and freaked out to start anything, the chances of living happily ever after are low. So, I’m not having fantasies about making him my new boyfriend. But I do like him. And I think he likes me. And the sex was pretty good. And I’m going to try to figure out what it was about him. And what I liked about me when I was around him. And I’m going to try to replicate the situation with somebody else. I’m kinda stoked. It’s like sleeping with him gave me a big clue as I try to figure out what kind of guy I could date.

I’ll try and explain it some more in my next post. I’m sorry I’m so vague, I think I’m using my Vagina to figure my shit out again, and I’m not quite done yet, so it’s hard to explain the progress I’m making.

No matter what, I think that getting some really awesome cock in the last few months has made me a better card writer. Or at least, it’s put me in a pretty good mood, so I think I can honestly say that your friends and lovers will be happy to get a Snarky Card from you this year. You can see for yourself on my etsy site. I hope you like the new shit. It was a delight to get some inspiration the old-fashioned way: naked.

Sincerely,

Alisa

My name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. They will crack you the fuck up. I sell them in bars, from a box that hangs around my boobs. And I have them in 35 different stores around Portland, OR and in other fine cities.

I think I feel like I’m on an even keel, for the first time since I started Snarky Cards, 3 years ago. This Christmas was slammin. It seemed like everyday I got a call from a store or a person who was wondering where

This is how I felt for the last 2 months. I'm the lady being stretched out.

their cards were. I couldn’t get enough cards to my stores. I couldn’t make enough cards to make sure that every store got Christmas Cards. And while I loooove having my cards in stores, my wholesale pricing means that I don’t make enough money just selling them to stores to get by. I need to go out and sell them in bars also. So, I spent about 6 weeks, from Thanksgiving to Christmas painting my ass off, trying to sell my ass off. And every time I turned around, there was more to do, and not enough of me to get it done. It was exciting to have everybody want my shit. And overwhelming. It was kind of like being stretched out on the rack. I was sick for the entire month of December, and most of November. And I didn’t know how I would make it through.

But I did. January, so far, has been kind of awesome. I’m still collecting money for my Christmas sales, and this month my bills have all been paid on time. And I’ve got time to breathe, and plan. My most awesome thing (besides the nifty bills-paid thing, which is shiny and new) that I’m doing this year is called a schedule. Since I started the cards, I’ve mostly been reacting. People asked for Christmas cards, so I thought some up. My stores needed display boxes, so I created them, People asked me to make displays, or do craft shows, so I figured that out. People wanted me to be able to take credit cards, so I got a machine. This year, I feel like I know how to do every kind of thing I need to know how to do in order to sell Snarky Cards well. I feel like I can start planning, and preparing for the next thing, instead of just reacting when it comes up. Therefore, the schedule.

I think I can make enough money, and cards if I spend Monday through Wednesday painting and typing, and handling my office work. And then I can spend Thursday through Sunday selling my cards in bars. I have never been able to do that in part because selling my cards in bars takes a lot out of me, and I haven’t been able to make myself do it 2 days in a row. Say nothing of 3 days in a row. But I think if I ease off the booze (less whiskey, more weed and water while I’m working), and start having a little faith, rather than making myself crazy  believing that I’ll fail, and then trying to build myself back up into The Super Awesome Snarky Card Chick so I can go out and sell, I’ll be able to do it.

That’s the other thing, from now on I’m just going to believe that my system works. Which it does- but it’s insane. I mean, what kind of asshole tries to make a living selling their own art? My parents didn’t raise me to believe that I could do whatever I wanted with my life. They raised me to believe that I could maybe look forward to a life as an executive’s assistant, if I worked very, very hard. And if I was very, very lucky, a nice man would pity me, and marry me despite my mouth, and I wouldn’t starve, or get into too much trouble. Because the man would save me from my own personality. And looks.

So the idea that I can make my living off of my art flies in the face of my childhood beliefs. The idea that I could use my sexuality, or my looks to help sell that art also defies everything my Mother ever taught me too. And I think while I’ve been building Snarky Cards, I’ve still subjected myself to those beliefs in my head.

So, I’m banishing yet another piece of my childhood from my head because it makes my life harder. And I’m just going to try the schedule, and I’m just going to believe that I can make it work. Because so far, I have made it work.

Soon, I’ll have a new pair of undies to grace you with, and I’m cooking up some Snarky Posters for you too.

Thanks for listening to my boring list of chores, Internets. I promise, news about my Vagina is on it’s way!

Love,
Alisa

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. And I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs.They will crack you the fuck up! I also have Snarky Cards in 35 different stores. So if you don’t feel like finding the nearest bar, and waiting there hopefully for me, you have other options.

This is Arlette. Yes, she wears short skirts and knee high socks. Because Arlette is a sexy bitch, with sexy knees.

I haven’t posted anything in a while because I’ve been having some small website problems. Which I’m pretty sure are resolved now; basically my website was full, so I needed to buy a bigger site. Or something. I’m not super-savvy-web-chick. I use a typewriter regularly. I cried when I had to give up my rotary phone. In 2007. So, I am not in charge of the website stuff. I’m sorta at my friend, Arlette’s mercy for web-stuff. And luckily, Arlette totally came through! All hail to the super-sexy web-goddess! So, now I can tell you all the rad stuff you missed in the last two months!

As you know, I recently created Snarky Underwear: Amazing Ass Wear. There’s a girls pair, which I told you about two months ago, when they came out. But between now and then, I also created a Boys pair of Undies! They also say ‘fuck you and your fucking feelings” on the ass. So you can moon people with a message! So far, I’m the only model for the  Boys Undies.

So, dear Internets, you finally get to see a close up of The Magic Mountain. Here she is in all her glory, showing off the boys undies.Whaddya think?

It was really nerve-wracking to take my pants off, and let my room-mate Claire take pictures of my ass. I know I joke about it’s size a lot, but I’ve never actually considered letting anyone take a picture of it in all of it’s glory. I mean, ever. So, taking these pictures of the magic mountain totally tripped me out. But afterwards I felt kinda triumphant. Like, if I can take pictures of my huge fucking ass wearing only hilarious underwear, I can do anything! So, yet again, Snarky Cards helps me get over my body-image issues. It’s kind of ironic that shaking my tits to sell my art validates me. And taking kinda-naked pictures of my ass also validates me. It’s almost as if becoming a sex-object gives me purpose and self-esteem.

You might be saying to yourself “Amazing Ass Wear is awesome! How do I get a pair?” Which is a totally good question. They’re available online. And they’re also in these fine stores:

• Radish Underground
• Space Monkey Coffee Shop
• Rock’n'Rose
• Twilight Artist Collective
• Cherry Redd
• Buffalo Exchange Hawthorne

Some super-good press things have happened lately too! Like:  I did the cover of Just Out! Isn’t it awesome? It was really fun painting cards for Just Out! And it was really fun coming up wih and typing their headlines. It was like I really worked for a magazine! Which used to be my dream, when I was a little girl. Actually when I was a little girl, I totally wanted to be a paid writer. I really wanted to write books. But as I grew up I realized I might have to settle for a magazine. So, it was more like my second-place-dream. Either way, when they asked me to make this cover, it felt like it was coming true. And I also felt like a successful artist. I’ve sold 33,780 Snarky Cards so far. And I’m proud of that. But somehow when Just Out! Asked me to do this, it validated my work in a totally different way. So, thanks Just Out! I loved working with you!

After Just Out asked me to do their cover, they wrote an article about me! I think this article captures my awesomeness. It’s my favorite piece of press yet! I even get to say Motherfucker in the middle of the interview! Proving that they really did talk to me! Amanda is an amazing writer. The tone of her writing sounds like… me, It’s just so fucking fantastic. And I’m so excited that such a good writer wrote about me!

Also: the picture is of my tits and my typewriter. Which I love.

Last week, I caught a cold. It was kind of awesome. I spent 3 days sleeping, watching Stargate and eating chocolate cake. It took me 3 days to realize that I was enjoying it so much because I haven’t taken a day off in a couple of months. Which made me think maybe I need to figure out how to slow down a little bit.

After 3 days of that awesome combination, I felt better and I had the energy to scan all of my Christmas and Hanukkah cards in. So, they’re now available online! This is the first Christmas I’ve gotten my stock out so early. And some of my not-taking-time-off since August has been me, trying to get ready for Christmas. So, in celebration I’ve created a coupon code! For my first ever Holiday sale! From now until Wednesday, November 30th at 7pm., use the coupon code: Blackfridaysucks to get 20% off at http://snarkycards.etsy.com! How rad is that?

If you live in Portland, or Seattle, or New York,  or Salem, you can just go into a store and buy my cards, you don’t have to order them online! Check out my list of stores!

So, a whole bunch of rad shit has happened to me since the last time I talked to you! Including some awesome sex! I slept with a friend of mine recently, and it was totally good. And since we’re friends, everything was cool the next day, and we’re still friends. The sex was awesome. There was hot naked boy, and lots of huge penis. Over and over again. A lot of good sex with a guy who is nice, who was nice to me after the sex. I think I really, really needed it.

So, I’m thinking I should start exclusively having sex with my friends. No more stranger-bar-sex. Does that mean that I’m turning into a prude, Internets? I’m thinking it’s an age thing. My sister, and KT have all given up on stranger-sex. And they were just as slutty as I was. Maybe Ani was right, maybe we all do turn into fuckin’ AM radio as we get older, and there isn’t anything we can do about it.

The thing is that lately the bar-sex I’ve gotten has been terrible. And this sex was way better. So, while I may end up getting laid less because I am no longer going to be sleeping with strangers, I will be having better quality sex. So in the end, my Vagina will be much, much happier. I am impressed with my sex-logic. It may seem like a duh-thing to you, but it’s taken me 14 years of sleeping with strangers to figure out that it’s not usually that good.Your no-duh is my aha! moment.

I hope you like the Christmas/Hanukkah Cards! And I hope you like the Amazing Ass Wear! And I hope you enjoy the mountain!

More soon, I promise!

Love,

Alisa

As some of you know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Tonight I went to Meridian Gold Dust, where I saw a bunch of regulars, and we had a pretty good time. I’ve been working out my abs, lately, while I swim. And I think I trapped a bunch of sad feelings in them, because afterwards, I feel a melancholy I have a hard time shaking. So it took a while, but eventually the the drunks at Meridian Gold Dust laughed and joked me back into myself.

Afterwards I walked up to The Aalto. On the way, I ditched my underwear. It wasn’t really my underwear. It was my last-chance underwear. You know, that shitty pair of underwear you wear when you haven’t done laundry in, like, a month, and you want just want something covering your ass? It wasn’t even really mine. It was KT’s, she loaned them to me last time she was here, (they were clean when she gave them to me) but they weren’t really hers. They were her husbands. And he hates me. So, while they’re a little small on me, I delight in wearing the-man-who-hates-me’s underwear.

The irony didn’t make the walk between Hawthorne and Belmont. It was too uncomfortable, and I was trying to feel up on things.  By the time I made it to The Aalto, I was in a better mood. I never go without undies, so I was also feeling kinda slutty. Which is new. I know you know I have lived a very slutty life, but in the last 6 months or so, I’ve been keeping my legs closed. I even made a resolution: I’m only having sex with my friends right now. Or people I know, anyway.

The hot Canadian Boys were fighting over this card. Sigh. I love a guy who gets that period blood is a natural lubricant.

I made my way through the Aalto, until I got to this big group, a few hot guys, and some hot girls. The girls turned out to be big Snarky Cards fans, and the boys turned out to be Hot Canadians Taking a Road Trip.

Usually, when I go out selling, I’m purposeful. People invite me to bar crawl with me all the time,or to after-parties, or back to their place to get stoned and chill. And I usually just say “I’m sorry, I have to keep selling, maybe next time?” But I don’t usually mean it. I usually mean: “hanging out with you is fun, but I’d rather make money. Because I am hungry, and out of food.” And when these guys invited me to Rotture (the only dance party in Portland) after the Aalto, I said no at first.

But then Devon, (the hottest Canadian) and I bonded over Davinci’s Inquest. Which is the best Canadian show ever. The thing is, there are only 40 Canadian actors. They all live in Vancouver. They are the rotating cast of Stargate, The X-Files, Battlestar Galactica, Davinci’s Inquest and some lesser known Canadian television shows. He was in the middle of a story about how Christopher Judd was being an asshole at a local club, when I realized he had my full attention. And I didn’t want to keep selling. I just wanted to keep hanging out with this guy. Then he started dancing, to illustrate their ultimate destination, and I remembered that I wasn’t wearing underwear.

So, we went to Rotture, which was closed. So we cruised to The Slammer made a dance party there. The dancing was hot. And as we got down to “Add it Up” by the Violent Femmes, I thought “I could take you home.” But, in the end, I chickened out. Or rather, I put it off, and by the time we were all hanging out at the HotCake House, Dave -one of the other hot Canadians- was all up in Devon’s shit. He totally bro-blocked any canoodling I was going to try to finangle. Not that my game is all that on right now anyway. I mean, I was working up my nerve to invite Devon to crash at my place, but it’s been ages since that kind of thing required any kind of nerve on my part.

I just get tongue-tied lately, which confuses me, because I’ve had game since I was 15 years old. So then I spend time thinking about how I am game-less, and I forget to just grin and shove the cute boy into the bathroom with me for some make-out. In the end, I gave him my card, and Teresa too (who is, by the way, a rad fucking bitch). And kissed him lightly on the lips before I stepped out of the car. I ran upstairs, cursing my new inability to score. I mean, I know I have a rule, but I’m also pretty sure that there’s a Canadian exception.

So, Devon: if you’re reading this, next time I see you, I’m gonna throw you up against a wall. Teresa: Thanks for being the cool chick at the bar. Katie: You are the hottest Welcome Wagon I’ve ever seen, thanks for rounding up the Hot Canadians, Dave: You make me wanna do guy-voice all the time and make skinny jeans look hot, and Hot Guy with 90′s hair, you made me feel like a part of the group.

Snarky Underwear, coming soon to an internet near you!

I hope you are having the kinda rad time I am. This weekend, I’m planning on going to Seattle for The Dead Baby Downhill, and some sister time.

Hopefully I’ll figure out the underwear while I’m up there. Not the pair I abandoned on Hawthorne, the Snarky Underwear, that I’m going to be making and selling. It looks like I”ll be able to finish it in the next week or so. Stay tuned!

Sincerely,

Alisa

My hands are where my box usually is. My Snarky Card Box. The other box is a lot lower.

For those of you who don’t know, I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. I was recently in California, selling cards, and watching my room-mate, Claire graduate. And it sucked.

Claire and I both had a hard time in the Bay Area for different reasons.  I found out that one of my oldest friends has two kinds of cancer (Scary).  Another best friend of mine decided that she no longer cares for my company -my big mouth was the only explanation I got, in the voicemail (hurt my feelings). My parents have decided to move to Turkey because a demon told them that he and his legion were preparing for their final battle here on earth. After they cast him out of a person. And I’m going to have to go to back to their house to clean it out so that they can sell it to fight in Armageddon. Because apparently they’re still crazy (disappointing). A friend of mine’s father has pickled his brain with alcohol, which I got to see up close (really, really sad). And I spent the weekend hanging out with a bunch of angry chicks who were sure I was going to steal their boyfriends. So they were pre-emptively mean to me (frustrating, I didn’t want their boyfriends). I tried going out selling, and a few of my favorite bars were going through a slump (depressing).

The thing is, all of the bad news I got, were calls I got in California, from people who live in California. Which made me wistful for Portland. I’m never wistful for Portland when I go back to the Bay Area. It made me feel like a woman without a home. And worse than that, all of this shitty stuff didn’t happen in one day. It happened every day. I got a phone call, text, or was faced with something scary and horrible every day.

Claire got to go home a few days before I did. She had a plane ticket. I don’t fly anymore. Because I can’t afford that shit. I’m an Art Prostitute, and we don’t make that much. I rideshare when I go to Seattle or San Francisco. It’s $30-50 for rideshare, $100 for a train, and $200 for a plane ticket. And there’s a lot of traffic back and forth, so you can usually find at least one ride. The problem is, it’s all weekend traffic. So I ended up staying in California for  or 4 extra days, while I tried to find a ride home.

I finally found a rideshare with these two girls, who made fast friends on the trip. I could see why they liked each other. They were some of the dumbest people I’d ever met. Usually being in a rideshare with people I don’t necessarily like doesn’t bother me, I sleep most of the way anyway. But one of those bitches woke me up, because I was snoring a little, and it really bothered her. She wasn’t trying to sleep, she was just trying to ruin my ride back home. After that, I couldn’t sleep, because I was afraid of getting woken up again. And punching her in the throat, thereby delaying my homecoming.

The is one of the most awesome movies I've seen in a while. And it's the best mystery I've read all year.

So, I tried to read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (awesome, by the way) and tune out the retarded things that kept slipping out of their mouths. It was hard. You know when stupid people talk about something they don’t understand? And you know what they’re talking about way better than they do, but you don’t want to interject yourself into their conversation, because then you would be talking to stupid people? Yeah, that happened to me for twelve hours.

For example: both girls started talking about open relationships. Neither of them had been in one. But one of the girls had worked coat-check at a sex club in The City. Which made her the “expert”. They talked about how and why people have open relationships for 45 minutes. They got it wrong. And they sounded really, really dumb the entire time. The last relationship I had was open. I have a lot of friends who are into the poly-community, I’ve talked some of my best friends through their poly relationships, and I’ve had to sit through countless conversations with my friends about how to maintain your primary relationship vs your secondary relationships. But I didn’t say anything. Because they wouldn’t have listened to me anyway. And I wasn’t sure these girls were smart enough to get past the title of “The Ethical Slut”. They seemed to beleive that ladies want relationships, and dudes want sex. And there were no in-betweens.

We stopped in Ashland for lunch. By then I had decided that there was no point in talking to these girls at all. They were Not Smart and they didn’t think I was funny. Also, the dumbest one kept saying horrible things about fat people and then looking at me and apologizing. I am as offended by fat-ism remarks as I am by racist remarks. (When people make homophobe remarks I’m annoyed, but I also immediately start picturing them starring in a gay porn. Because Homophobia is Hella-Gay, Yo.)

So: Fatism. It’s rude, and it basically proves you’re a total dick. I think when I was younger, I was sensitive about my weight. Now I’m not. I know I’m kinda fat, but I’m also kinda hot. I don’t remember the last time a skinny girl felt sorry for me, mostly because I get more action than anyone else I’ve ever met. But it was clearly happening on this trip. And I was determined not to engage them in conversation, so I just let it happen.

One of the dumb bitches (the nicer, smarter one) had a friend in Ashland. So, we stopped, to meet her for lunch. Once we got into the cafe, this friend looked at me puzzled. “Um are you sitting with us?” she asked. “Um, I was going to.” I said uncertainly, with my book halfway open, and my food looking tasty in front of me. Her friend (The smarter dumb bitch) hadn’t mentioned I was on the rideshare with them. Or introduced me. And since I had literally stopped talking out loud to the dumb bitches, I hadn’t introduced myself. So, the friend explained she thought I was a random homeless person who had followed them!  Wasn’t that hilarious? Yes. I thought. That’s perfect. This ride is like the trip to California but shorter. A shitty end to a shitty week.

We got back on the road, and I tried not to fall asleep or listen to their conversation. Every once in a while, when the urge to physically make them shut the fuck up became really, really strong, I would remind myself that I was once 26 and I probably judged people and sounded stupid back then too. And once the urge to suffocate one of them passed, I would let myself remember that at 26 I was the just starting Snarky Cards. And therefore, I was the same goddamned person I am now, and I have always been more awesome than these bitches. And ohmygod, Alisa, just let it go, so you can get fucking home.

The bitches started speeding right around the time we got to Mt. Shasta. Which is a scary enough road. I have been in 10 car accidents. That’s the reason I don’t drive anymore. I decided that car accidents were The Universe’s way of telling me to stop fucking driving. I have crashed a lot. But I have not died. So I have a healthy fear of crashing and dying. I couldn’t say “Please slow down you’re scaring me.” Because at this point I considered the dumb bitches my enemies. And I would not tell the enemies how to scare the shit out of me. So, I tried to close my eyes, without falling asleep, I tried to bury my head in my book. I took some long, deep breaths. I smoked weed at the rest stops. And I fantasized that I would be the only survivor when the dumb bitch driving flipped the car over.

When the cop pulled us over, I hid my face in my sweater so that they couldn’t see that I was grinning. The dumb bitch driving tried to get the cop to “give her a break” by asking him over and over again if he would “give her a break”. Which the cop ignored. I was embarrassed for her. I mean, what’s the point of trying to get out of a speeding ticket if you’re not going to 1. Cry or 2. Show some nipple? Without one of those two ingredients, you are not actually trying to get out of a speeding ticket. You are just annoying a cop. Which is not a good idea.

I was deliriously  happy about the ticket. Now they would drive slower, and I wouldn’t die. And also: something bad had happened to them. And I delight in the misfortune of others because I am a bad person. After we pulled away from the cop, I didn’t want to hear any bitching about cops- because what do two white, middle class, suburban girls in their mid-twenties have against cops? I mean, really? What could the cops have ever done to these girls, except shut a party down? Also, I felt like that cop was avenging me for having to listen to their stupid conversation for 500 miles. And I didn’t want my knight in shining speeding tickets’ name besmirched.

As soon as we pulled away, the dumbest of the bitches started yelling “I fucking hate cops! This one time-” I cut in straight away. “The cops were really nice to me when I was molested.” I said as loudly as I could.

It was a true story. But it also happened 17 years ago. And I’ve had twelve years of therapy. And being molested is no longer a trauma that ruined my life. Now it’s a story I use to make stupid bitches shut up. And it totally worked. Her mouth was still open, full of her story about how cops suck. And she shut it. And opened it again, and her eyes got big, and she looked a  little scared. And then she started nodding. “Oh that’s good!” she said a few times before settling back in her seat. Getting molested made her shut up for the next ten minutes. I wouldn’t say it was totally worth it, but it was a perk of Child Sex Abuse that I didn’t expect.

When we finally arrived, they wanted to hug me, and thank me for riding with them. And pretend like we were friends. I observed the niceties and then ran up to my apartment, happy to finally be home. “I hated that rideshare.” Claire said. I texted her when they said surprisingly stupid things. “Not more than me!” I said.

We did our Murder She Wrote dance (yes, we have a dance we do to the Murder She Wrote Theme Song, it’s got a lot of elbow action in it) and settled in for a few episodes. Chester was so happy to see me that he raped Tigger all over the apartment. And we ate some yummy food, and solved a murrrder, and I was so fucking relieved to be back home.

I’m still pretty relieved to be back home. And it looks like I might be able to get some awesome plans off the ground soon! More news in a few days,

Love,

Alisa

Since the last time I wrote you, a lot of shit has gone down. I know, I should keep you updated.  But I don’t. Because like it or not, internets, I’m sort of a public figure. I’m kinda famous in Portland. And people seem to know me (or remember me) in San Francisco too. Which makes me feel kinda responsible for telling you the whole truth. And when I don’t tell you about my feelings it’s because I’m waiting until I know how I feel about them.Which sounds kind of lame. But you know what? Feelings are complicated, and outside of not wanting to jinx the nice ones, I also don’t want to burden you with too many of the complicated ones until I can give you the complete picture. In the short run, I may hate that bad sexual decision I made in San Francisco. I may be incredibly angry at my Vagina for leading me astray. Or my 3 girlfriends, for making-out in front of me, and leaving me sexually frustrated so that I ran up to the nearest, hottest single guy and propositioned him. Spending the night with him was the worst sexual decision this year. And I’ve spent at least 30 hours regretting our sexual contact. Which is 28 more hours than we spent in bed. But, larger picture, after a month of context and thinking about it, I realize that I love the  6 best-selling cards out of that bad sexual decision. So, while I still hate the fact that that cock was in my Vagina, I’m glad that I wrote:

Dear_______________

You are a great lay and a bad person. I hope you get hit by a car and someone you love has to unplug you.

Sincerely,

____________________

See? Aren’t you glad I waited to tell you the whole story until I had a happy ending?

So, this is what’s going down. I have been thinking that this might be my last year in Portland. So, of course, hot boys have been hitting on me( my most major complaint about this town) and rad girls have been befriending me. And generally, Portland has been delivering on all of the shit that I was complaining that it didn’t offer in a last minute attempt to woo me here forever.

The Glorious and Awesome Claire

And, as you know, I love California. And I have loved California a lot this year. I’ve spent at least two months there this year, going back for Holidays (passover) and birthdays, and graduations, and general celebrations, because this is the year that Everything Happens. So, my love affair with California has intensified, and since I thought maybe I’d break up with Portland this year, it makes sense that my back-up city (and several of my back-up booty-calls) should start crooning in my ear. But two weeks ago, I went back for a graduation. Claire, my favorite room-mate (and non-sexual life-partner) was graduating from Berkeley. Which reminds me, Claire, if you’re reading this, I found some chips in the living room. The bag was mostly empty, and hidden a corner. You hadn’t spilled beer on them, but I thought they were abandoned in a drunken way. So I stole them, and am devouring them now. If you were saving them for later, I totally owe you a partially eaten bag of Dirty All Natural Potato Chips.

This is Chester. He is gay. And he likes to rape Tigger, whenever he feels feelings. It's pretty fucking hilarious.

So, Claire was graduating from Berkeley. Which is amazing and awesome, right? So I found two, very nice homeless girls to stay in the apartment, and Claire and I booked it to The South Bay. From whence we came. The homeless girls took great care of my very gay, very adorable cats. And Claire did a brilliant job of graduating. Unfortunately, everything else about the trip sucked. Every day I got a sucky phone call, from a Californian with Bad News. And every day, I longed for the comfort of The Art Shack, where I make Snarky Cards, watch my cats rape each other and make hilarious comments while Murder She Wrote or Law and Order SVU reign supreme.

So, while Portland and I might be on the rocks, I’m feeling even worse about California than I ever have. So, I may still think about leaving the Northwest, but I think my only option is going more North West, like Seattle or maybe Canadia (where the stars are more awesome, and the television is more adorable).

So now I’ve been back for a week and a half. And after I crawled out of the fetal position, and realized that I’m in a safe place, where my life rocks, and Californians can call me here, but I still have cat rape and Murder she Wrote to comfort me, regardless of their bad news, I also realized that I have built a beautiful life in Portlandia.

Yes, I may not have a “boyfriend” or any “prospects” or any regular “booty calls” but I drink for free. And most of the people I meet have a story about how Snarky Cards have made their lives better. And while Portland boys don’t put out, they do like to ogle me and they give pretty good motorboats. And I know where to go to get great food on the cheap, and tonight I got let into two of my favorite bars after closing time, to share drinks with cute boys who flirt (with no intention of putting out, or even making out, fucking cunt-teases) and sexy bartenders who pour hard.

This week, while I was selling, I got no less than twelve motor-boats, and I got to squeeze a lot of man-ass (very awesome man-ass by the way) while I was selling. And when I get Bad News Phone Calls, they’re never from Portlandia.

So, PDX, thank you for being the awesome boyfriend I keep coming back to, because my ex-boyfriend (I’m talking to you California) totally used to hit me. And while I know I don’t wanna get hit anymore, I’m not sure if I deserve a fully-functional penis, so I stay with you. Even though you don’t put out so much, you give good cuddle, and when I want to cry, you hold me really nice. I love the fact that I feel safe with you, and I know that even though you don’t sex me up the way I’d like you to, Portlandia, you totally support me as I work through my feelings, and you think my boobs are awesome in an abstract way. Which is almost as good as regular sex and worship. And the food you make me while I’m feeling down, makes up for the fact that my vibrator runs out of batteries almost every week.

That’s the update, internets. I’ll have more better news in a few days. Sorry it took me so long, and it’s not as happy as I’d like it to be. I’m suffering from a little geographical dysmorphia. This is as coherent as the story gets. My next post will be about my fucked up family. Which is way more entertaining than my pathetic and annoying longing-to-be-where-I’m-not

Love,

Alisa