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

See? They're huge! And they help me pay my rent.

I’ve going out to bars selling a lot lately. 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. And lately, the bars have been seeing a lot of me. And I’ve been seeing a lot of them. And there have been some cute boys, and flirting, and I’ve made a bunch of money, helping me pay my electric bill and keeping my cats in food. So, thanks Portland!

Oh yeah. And guess what, internets? I’ve decided to stop having sex! Forever. Just kidding! I’m going to try to go a month. A month that will feel like forever. I know, I’ve said this before. And some cute boy (or my period) would usually come along and screw up my resolution. But I figure if I keep trying to quit having sex with strangers, over and over again, eventually I’ll get it. At least, that’s how my business manager quit smoking. She just kept quitting. I figure if it worked for cigarrettes, it can work for anonymous sex, right?

See? I'd like to give this to someone. Someday. Maybe soon. Ish. I'm embarassed about this. But I'm glad that I can come out to you, internets. Thanks for understanding about my Vag having feelings.

OK, so here are the rules: flirting and making-out is ok. But making-out is a maximum. You might be asking yourself “What the fuck is Alisa’s problem? Why is she putting herself through this?” You might also be asking yourself “Why do I care what happens in Alisa’s Vagina?” I don’t know why you care what happens in my Vagina. I just know that I’m compelled to tell you what’s happening in my Vagina. But I can tell you why I’m going to turn perfectly awesome hook-up potentials into high school make-out sessions.

See, when I wasn’t looking, some monster jerry-rigged my feelings to my Vag. So now, while I can still have awesome sex with boys I meet at bars, I find myself wishing it was more than a one night stand when I get home in the morning. I keep finding myself wallowing in regret. So, I’ve decided to try not to have any more one night stands for a while. This is going to be hard, since random hook-ups have been my primary dating experience for the last couple of years. But it looks like I don’t have a choice. And I promise you this, internets,  if I find the fucker that hooked up my feelings to my Hoo-Haa, I’m going to beat the living shit out of them.

Or Hell, I'd even like to deserve this card again. I kinda just wanna take a chance on somebody, you know? Even if they might suck.

I feel really validated by the fact that Dr. Mc Steamy from “Doctors who cry in Seattle” (also known as Grey’s Anatomy) is having this very same epiphany right now about his penis. It’s like our genitals are acting in concert. Although, these are his fake genitals, and they’re my real genitals. So, not really. But his fake-epiphany still validates my real one. Which is yet another example of television working to make my life better.

I think I’m headed back to San Francisco sometime next week, for Passover. Until then, I’ve been loading up the internet with new Snarky Cards, for your pleasure. Some of which, are displayed above. I hope you like the new cards. And thanks for understanding about my new Vaginal status.

Love,

Alisa

I had an awesome night Wednesday night, dancing my ass off, serenaded by cute boys playing awesome music. I didn’t even mind the fratboy nature of the Dublin Pub on St. Paddy’s Day. Or the annoying drunk girls, sloshing their drinks next to me. Although the sorority chicks that populate The Dublin Pub on St. Paddy’s Day (They might be there every other day too, but I just go there for Fenbi shows, and Fenbi only plays there for St. Paddy’s Day) kinda freaked me out. Because honestly, it seems like the older I get, the more bizarre college girls are.

I mean, when I was their age, I’m pretty sure I didn’t wear all that make-up. Or say stupid things all the time. Or act annoying when I wanted to make-out with a boy. And there’s that other thing. That thing where they all look alike? It’s like all of the girls born from 1984-1988 all look, and talk and dress the same. I’m worried that they all have a hive-mind too. And if I show one how much she creeps me out, than they’ll all know, like in Science Fiction movies, where suddenly all the pod people jerk their heads and can see you? And then you get followed by an angry mob of sorrority girls, who think, talk and act the same all the time. The fear of their hive mind competed strongly with the  fear that one of them would throw up on my prostitute dress, and I was relieved when I heard Fenbi starting to rock out, so I could leave the sorority chicks drunkenly swaying into the open arms of the hopeful frat boys, and just dance.

I was cranky way before I got to the Dublin Pub. It’s the fucking holiday. “Oh you must make so much money on St. Patrick’s Day!” people say to me. But the truth is, I don’t. I actually kinda hate it. It’s not that I hate the Irish. I lived in Ireland for a while. (OK, and also all that fake Irish shit. I mean, seriously? We are such a wannabe country sometimes) I hate amateur drinkers. I sell my cards in bars because I love bar-sluts. I love regulars. I love bartenders. I love the weird family and friendships that come out of people deciding that they have to be mashed up next to each other for an hour or a night, while they drink.

I made this card for my people. I hope you like it!

And most of the people who go out drinking for St. Patrick’s Day, are not those people. Most of them don’t drink the rest of the year. Which would be ok. Except that it means that those fuckers don’t know the rules. And so they make the rest of us nervous or angry when they violate them. The rules for the bar are simple. But they still seem to elude some people. So I’ve written them out for everyone, to ensure that next St. Paddy’s Day, you’ll have some guidelines for your annual trip to the bar.

DRINKIN’ Rules:

1a. The bartender is the giver of goodness and light. The bartender is the one who decides how much alcohol you get. And how long you stay in The Happy Place (the bar). Always be nice to the bartender, and the bartender will be nice to you. If you are a dick to her/him, you will suffer. And your fellow drinkers will suffer. So smile, and be polite, dickhead.

1b. If your bartender is in a foul mood, or not having a good day, you still need to be nice to them. You still need to be polite. Because they still hold all the power in the situation. They still allow you to stay in The Happy Place and are your access to liquor. If you don’t like them, or their attitude, go somewhere else. But short of said bartender fucking your girlfriend/boyfriend, there’s no good reason for you to provoke them or try to adjust their dickliness by being a dick yourself. It will make it harder for you to get alcohol. And it will make it harder for the people around you to get a good pour. So either smile and be nice or go home and drink by yourself.

2. If you are puking, swaying, sleeping or having sex in the bar, you’ll get cut off. They’re not being a dick. You’re already not acting right. Why would they want your behavior to get worse? The bar is their responsibility. What if you fall asleep and pee your pants? Do you know who has to clean that up? Yeah, them. Maybe you have sex in a booth. They’re the ones who have to wipe up your love-juice. Or maybe you fall and cut your head on the floor. They’re going to have to mop up your blood. So, no, you’re not getting another drink. In fact, what’s your problem, anyway? Don’t you want to go home by now ? At home you can fall asleep, have sex and piss all over yourself, and no-one will get mad at you.

3. Every drink, you tip a dollar. More if you can, but a dollar is the least you can tip per drink. If you don’t have money to pay for tip, you don’t have money to buy the drink. Remember rule #1, and tip, motherfucker. Like your access to liquor depends on it.

Hitting on someone is way better than picking a fight!

4. Fights suck. Yes, liquor makes people crazy, but we’re all adults here. And if you get into a fight, you’re going to have to leave. If you get into a fight, you’re going to be lucky if all you are is 86′d out of The Happy Place. Because you could hurt someone. And then you could go to jail. I just watched a Homicide episode where a guy got into a barfight (in Munch’s bar!) and he accidentally killed a guy. And now he’s going to jail. Don’t be the dead guy, or the guy in jail. Just drink, and hit on people. Like a regular person who likes drinking in public, and wants to keep drinking in public.

Hopefully this helps anyone who wants to know what the fuck they did wrong in the bar. And to ease the pain of my lecturing blog, I have made some new Snarky Cards. Which are now available online! I hope you like them.

Love,

Alisa

PS Sorry I’m so ranty.

As you know, I have a big crush on The Fenbi International Superstars. Their name makes no sense, but it doesn’t stop this band of hot boys from making amazing music.

And tonight they’ll be playing at The Dublin Pub 6821 Southwest Beaverton-Hillsdale Highway, from 10pm until closing time.

Their last show @ The Ash Street Saloon was a total dance party!

For those of you who haven’t hear them, Fenbi is delicious. Their music sounds like old Irish drinking music, but they write all the words (and music) themselves. So, you find yourself singing along to the chorus, or dancing your ass off, to a tune that sounds familiar, and words that sound new. I’m a big lyric freak. I don’t listen to music without words. Period. And the first time I saw them, they entranced me with lyrics that managed to be both dirty and funny at the same time. Their signature song is the one that caught me, 2 years ago, at Kelly’s Olympian:

“Is the life that you lead just a little boring/ is every single day like the one before/ have you turned to a life of heavy drinkin’/ to drown out the fact that you’re a corporate whore.”

By the time Mike started wailing “I think you’re bad enough/ I think you’re good enough/ You’ll never get enough/ I heard you like it rough” I was hooked. Something about how he sings “I heard you like it rough” makes your thighs itch, Todd’s bass playing makes your hips move even harder than you expected -and ohgod! His acordian playing! What that man can do with his fingers is inspirational and enticing. Orian’s fiddle serenades you underneath it all, completing the seduction.

If you don’t have any St. Paddy’s Day plans, meet me there for new Snarky Cards, and sexy boys playing sexy music at you. I’ll be wearing my prostitute dress for the occasion. So, there’ll probably be some nipple poking out by the end of the night.  Hope to see ya there!

Love,

Alisa

I just got off the phone with my brother, Stephenie. Who called to tell me that his girlfriend (the amazing and awesome Christina) wanted him to call me to tell me that she loves reading about my period-blood-sex-adventures.

Now available online!

I never expected those words to come out of my brother’s mouth. He must be seriously pussy-whipped if he’s making calls to talk about my bloody Vagina on behalf of his girlfriend. That’s like, above and beyond buying super-sized tampons at the store.

“We’re not like regular families are we?” I asked, taken a little aback. “Um, duh?” He responded. Then he called me an asshole. I guess he’s right. I did kinda start it. I mean, I was the one who spent his entire childhood trying to convince him he was gay -it almost worked, he was going on dates with boys and hanging out at the Billy Defrank Center when he was in high school. I remember trying to make him smoke and drive when he was 11. And I did kinda flaunt my sexual conquests for our entire lives.

I guess it’s just one more way in which my life is weird because I make my living off of my Vaginal adventures.

Love,

Alisa

Can you honestly imagine me playing hard to get? Because I can't.

When I was 19, The Rules came out. The Rules were written by two skinny Anne-Coulter-esque women. You know, the kind of chicks who think that they’re hotter than shit because they can wear a pencil skirt and have long hair? Anyway, these bitches wrote The Rules, a book which proclaimed that the only way to “capture” Mr. Right is to be unavailable, and make him chase you. On a Rules first date, you’re not allowed to stay for longer than ten minutes. Whether you have something else to do or not, you have to look at your watch and say “Oh! I have to go!” and jump up and run away after ten minutes. After said date and for the rest of the relationship, you’re not allowed to return his first phone call. You have to wait until his third, or fourth. Or something. Apparently, the recipe for success is a combination of being unavailable, and maintaining mystique.

The book that insults us all.

As we all know, I am super-aggressive; sexually and in every other way. And I couldn’t maintain mystique to save my life. So, I fucking hated this bullshit. Probably because they created a program I have no hope of following, and then called any woman who didn’t follow their program lonely and stupid. But that’s not all of it.  It pissed me off that this philosophy is based on the idea that men need to be manipulated into love. Because for all of the slutting around I do, I like men. I respect men. And I’ve spent the better part of the last 17 years trying to work through all of my shit so that I can figure out how to have healthy relationships with them. The idea that I need to manipulate one into loving me means that I’m not lovable all by myself, and I can’t trust a man to make his own decisions about his feelings. All of which sucks.

The Rules Bitches: Arch-nemesis's of everything awesome

About two years after their books hit really big, both of those bitches found themselves divorced. Which gave me some satisfaction. I don’t usually delight in the misfortunes of other people. But I considered these women the Arch-Nemesis’s of everything awesome. And so, their divorces fed my desire to see them sad. Unfortunately, these divorces didn’t stop them from continuing to offer dating advice. They are continuing to wage their war against honest dating, even now. Their website is stocked with pictures of them smiling next to real celebrities. There’s even a quote from Oprah, saying that they are genius’s.

I understand their popularity. I think everyone wants to create some order out of the chaos of our lives. Especially when it comes to dating. Everyone has lines they won’t cross. I have name rules. Like the other night, I met a Ryan. Isn’t it weird how all Ryan’s are hot? And while he was charismatic, I knew he was Hell-bent on his own destruction. As well as the destruction of anyone else who said that they liked him. So, even though he had Dylan-hair, and was trying to throw some (pretty good) game at me, I passed, because it doesn’t matter how good a Ryan is in bed, the mind-fuck you’re getting afterward makes the whole thing feel like a bad sexual decision.

After I’ve met 3 different people with the same name, I can make general observations about the name. My name rules have helped guide me through my life.  I try to believe in exceptions to the rules. They exist. I’ve just never met them. Michael’s always try to fuck with my head. David’s kinda hate themselves. Kaytea’s are always a crazy-ass party, that you will never regret attending. But you should rest-up first. Emily’s are steadfast friends. And Becky’s are bitches. Rebecca’s are usually nice, thoughtful and sensitive. Steve’s are good friends, who will always listen, and seldomly put out.

As much as I depend on my name rules, they’re subjective. They’re based on my experience with people who have those names. The Bexter (note, she goes by Rebecca, not Becky, because she knows Becky’s are bitches too, and has therefore never let anyone call her that)  has had different experiences with different names. So, she is open to dating a David, or a Justin (although, she’s dated a lot of Justin’s she might be done with that particular name). So, basically, while I love my name rules, and they are the guiding light of my life, I can’t pass them along for public consumption, except as a party trick.

Recently, I was updating the list of people I’ve slept with. I’ve got 83 people on the list… And I feel like I’m missing some people. So, if we’ve slept together, could you please email me, so that I can double check and make sure I’ve alredy counted you? Please don’t email if we only made-out. You dont’ count. Wait. Unless we made-out and it was good, and you’d like to make the list. In which case, please email me, and I will consider your request. You can send your sexual requests (and tales of our dalliances together) to snarkycardsatgmaildotcom.

I have noticed lately, that I have a collected a lot of wisdom, from all these different boys, and situations I’ve found myself in. I give great dating advice. Which I can’t figure out how to follow myself (much like the evil bitches I despise). But my observations have helped my friends (and strangers I meet at the bar) navigate through their own dating debacles.

So I’ve decided to put together my own list. The Rules by The Snarky Card Chick! I will feed them to you in the form of cards, until we have enough for a book of our own. And then we can give America a choice, The Rules for girls who like men (by Alisa Starr) or The Rules for girls who like to manipulate men(by some heinous bitches).  Rule #13 is the first rule I ‘ve written so far. I wrote it for my friend, Tina. Who is a cougar. Which is kind of exciting, and it makes me very, very proud.

It’s a good rule, I think. But it’s not going to be part of the top ten. I don’t know how long the list will be yet. I’m just writing down things as they happen to me. Or as they happen to my friends. If you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Love,

Alisa

And who wouldn't take me home? I touch myself in public. A lot.

On the third day of my period, every month, I go out and get myself some. I know, my Vagina seems like a constant party, and you assumed I’ve been filling it more regularly than that, but the truth is, the rest of the month I work hard, and I flirt, but I go home by myself. I’m waiting for a relationship, I tell myself. And my friends. And my Snatch.

But the thing is, it’s been so long since I had a relationship, I don’t know how to go about getting into one anymore. For all I know, I’m cock-blocking myself at every turn. It could be years before I find a hot guy who doesn’t have anger issues, knows what kind of emotions he has when he has them, and wants to fuck the shit out of me. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting one. And so, I make my sexual choices a little more selectively than I have in the past. That’s why you haven’t read as many tails of rampant sluttery as you  might expect from an Art Prostitute.

Besides, boys don’t impress me as easily as they used to. But by day 3 of The Bloodbath, I am a cat in heat, and it doesn’t take much to impress me at all. I find boys I’d usually dismiss charming, and delicious. I can’t stop myself. The next morning I wake up triumphant and proud of my ability to score. It takes hours for me to start cursing my insane libido, and my seeming inability to find a nice boy who could take care of this and other sexual needs on a more regular basis.

I never tell boys that they are falling victim to my charms because of biological need. I should, I know, give them some sort of warning label to read. But my Vaginal needs come before anything else at that point.

Regardless, I think we all know that period blood, as well as being a great inspiration for bad sexual decisions, is also a great lubricant. And there is nothing hotter than seeing a guy pull away from you with your dead-baby blood smeared all down his happy trail.

So, I made this card for you to give to your guy. Congratulate him on his fortitude, give him his props for sticking it to ya, even when the sticking got sticky.

And in the meantime, I’ll try to wrap my head around the idea of finding something regular to put into my whoo-haa. So that I don’t have to keep conniving my way into strange beds every month.

Sincerely,

Alisa Starr

I mean, that’s kind of the point of feminism, right? Because feminism is basically about everyone agreeing that women and men are equal, while still celebrating their differences. And it’s about me, as a woman, believing that other women’s choices are OK.

I’m a feminist, and that means that whether you’re an accountant, a housewife, a daycare worker, a teacher, an executive or an Art Prostitute, I support your right to do the work you’re called to, and I will fight so that while you do that work, you are respected, and safe, and equally paid.

That’s what feminism is about. It’s not about policing the way people use words, or trying to take the fun out of sex. It’s about making sure that all women get to follow their talents.

And my talent is making sexy, irreverent, somewhat disgusting Snarky Cards. So, I hope you love this new one, where I combine I my inner belief system and my love for fucking.

Some of you might have noticed that last night I was out selling Snarky Cards at Zeitgeist in The Mission. I have returned home to San Francisco, to celebrate my ex-fake-husband’s 30th birthday.

I’ve taken the opportunity to get the Hell off my couch, jettisoning myself out of the Art Shack, which is stuffed to the brim with cats and people right now. Steve and Emily have a guest room, with a ginormous, comfy bed. There’s a swimming pool nearby and a bart station. So I can swim in the morning, and go out selling in The City at night. And I can return home, to the comfy bed, and bask in the love of my friends.

Isn't Steve adorable?

Steve and I started fake dating 8 years ago. It took us two years to fake-marry. And then it took that two years to explode in our faces. No-one really gets my fake marriage. Most people assume that I married someone so that they could stay in the country. Steve was born in Rochester, NY. And he and I didn’t actually marry. We just had a purely emotional relationship. Partly because I think he wasn’t attracted to me. And partly because I wasn’t capable of more than a fake relationship. We acted like we were dating. And then, when I moved into The Funhouse, we acted like we were married. And our divorce was painful and long. Yesterday, at his party, all of his friends stood around, and told stories about Steve. He’s kind of a private person, as his sister pointed after he got embarrassed, and stole out of the room in the middle of our hoots and reminisces. I didn’t really get that until all of the people who love him were in the same room with him (not his idea). No wonder our fake-marriage didn’t work. I’m not even a little bit private.

I can’t imagine keeping my life private, and that’s, like, one of his goals. His sister was really happy to meet me. “Well, he didn’t want to introduce me to you when we were fake-married because I say the word cunt, and you’re too delicate.” I informed her, feeling triumphant that we’d finally met, despite Steve’s best efforts. “I wanna hear more about this fake marriage!” She leaned her pregnant belly into the question. “Well, it’s a lot better now that we’re fake-divorced.” I was feeling smug because Steve and I are so close now. But a room full of people objected. “The divorce was horrible!” Jen cut her eyes at me, making sure I remembered. Jon nodded his head, looking frightened. “It was like a real divorce.” Randy explained to his still-confused sister. I looked around the room, at my friend’s pained faces, as they mentally relived my fake-divorce, trying to figure out how to give the whole thing a sensible narrative. And I saw Emily trying to scoot between Steve’s sister and her husband, and I realized what  had happened. And I realized that I could finally say it. “Yeah, and it would have stayed horrible between us, if not for Emily.”

Emily The Bridge

“Really?” Steve’s sister sounded surprised. Maybe in the real world ex-fake-wives don’t usually get along with newer, perfect girlfriends. “Yup. Emily is the bridge to all things awesome. She’s the one who got us all here.” It was true, but I was also happy to tell the story of me and Steve without getting stuck. “To Emily!” I raised my glass and everyone in the room toasted the girl who fixed my best-friendship.

Emily and Steve like to go out in nature together. I think nature is really gross. And deadly. I think that she's always trying to kill us. So we shouldn't be going out into the wilderness to be alone on her turf, where she has the upper hand. They're perfect together, right?

We were just trying to recover from our fake-divorce, when he brought Emily to Portland two years ago, to see me and some of her friends. I spent the whole weekend putting off being alone with them. I brought them to the bar, and then I disappeared to go off selling Snarky Cards. I made plans and then broke them, until finally he called and said “Could we please have breakfast before we leave town? I’d like to spend time with you.” So I couldn’t get out of it without looking like an asshole. I got high before I left the house, to loosen me up for whatever discomfort there was in front of me. I felt awkward as the three of us waited for a table, until Emily turned to me, and said to me “Steve tells me that you’re the reason that he’s good at communicating. And I just want to thank you because communication has been a big part of our relationship.” I froze, like I’d been caught doing something wrong. And then the last remaining bit of me that hadn’t forgiven him dropped, and smashed, and I fell in love with Emily a little bit. “Oh. Uh.” I stammered. “I didn’t realize he still said that to people.” She nodded brightly. I was amazed at how simply she’d put me at ease, and mended my relationship with Steve in one swift move.

Emily’s like that, her clear honesty sees you through uncomfortable moments, and where Steve and I break down, she picks up the slack. And so I have my best friend, Steve, back, and a bonus new best friend.

I realized, once I got here, that I haven’t been sleeping for the last month. Not just because I have been sleeping on the couch, but also because I’ve been worried about the next stage of Snarky Cards. I’ve been trying to figure out what kind of person I want to be in business. I’ve been wondering how to choose business partners. I’ve been trying to figure out what the next stage is. And I’ve got all these instincts, and intuitions, and feelings. And I’ve largely been trying to quash them. Because in business you go by numbers. And intuition is a woman thing. And Vagina’s are a weakness. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard in all of the other business situations I’ve been in. And I’ve had over 30 jobs. I’ve been in a lot of business situations. Before Snarky Cards I had a sales career, an office-bitch career, and a book career. And I always closely watched the executives, the decision-makers. And I tried to figure out what I liked about what they were doing, and what I didn’t and what I’d do differently, if it was my company.

And somewhere along the way I let it sink into my beliefs that having a Vagina, and feelings, and letting those influence my business decisions would mean that I made bad decisions. But looking around the room yesterday, at the faces of our friends, I realized that Steve and I built a life together, and when it fell apart, they still loved us. And they still want to celebrate us. And without all of those feelings, and all of those friends, I wouldn’t have been able to get this far.

My life has been saved over and over again by my feelings and my intuitions. So, it’s OK if my business runs on those same feelings and intuitions. I can be successful on the strength of my friends love.

Emily let me borrow her scanner, so that I could bring you New Snarky Cards. So if you wanna check out my etsy site, just remember that it’s brought to you by my Vagina. And my intuition. And the love of my friends.

Sincerely,

Alisa