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 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. Last week I ran out of cards, so I spent the better part of the week hiding out in my apartment, painting. IN the olden days, when I would isolate myself in a frenzied paint attack, I would really, really isolate myself. No phone calls, no visitors, no going out for anything but food. I would plonk myself in front of the tv and make myself paint for 12, 18 and sometimes 20 hours in a row, schnelling myself to go faster and faster until I ran out of food and cigarettes. When I finally released myself from the apartment, It was like coming out of some sort of horrible Art Camp. I was sleep deprived, hungry, lonely, and cracked out on tv and nicotine.

Apparently, that’s not how I roll anymore. I blame swmming. I’m not allowed to simply hole up in the apartment for days on end anymore, because I have to swim every day. I paid for a summer pass, and the cheap part of me gets angry if I’m not getting my money’s worth. The rest of me just likes the way that my arms are starting to look.

So, I go swimming and then I go home and paint. And then I sleep, and then I go swimming some more. There’s plenty of food in the apartment, and the swimming keeps me from smoking too much. And last week I had my new friend Fletch over, to paint with me. Patrick (my old room-mate) came over too. I painted, and we got stoned and watched Murder She Wrote and Voyage of The Mimi. Which, if you are interested, is available on Google videos. The Voyage of the Mimi is one of my few childhood memories untainted by suckiness. The moments where we watched Mimi in class were sacred to me. I think that my penchant for the show explains why I prefer Ben Affleck to Matt Damon.

Somehow this middle ground unnerves me, making me think that I’m not working hard enough at painting. For all of last week I worried that I wasn’t going fast enough. But at the end of my 4-day paint attack, I had 387 cards. So I think, in retrospect I was probably worried about nothing.

Tonight, when I started out selling for the first time since the paint attack, I was feeling nervous about talking to people. I got stoned before I left the house to figure out why. I think that this swimming and losing weight thing is complicated. A few years ago, I was thinking about losing weight, and I realized that in the mythology of my head: memories are stored in your fat cells. And part of the reason I’d gained the weight in the first place was so that I wouldn’t have to have some memories. I trapped them in my body, and then buried them under layers of boobs and stomach and ass.

I don’t know if it’s true or not. I do know that my body remembers things my mind doesn’t; like the elementary backstroke: the first time I got back in the pool, after years of not going in the water, I laid on my back, and just started moving. It wasn’t until I’d been doing it for a few days that I started realizing I heard “Chicken, Airplane, Soldier, Glide” in the back of my head as I was doing the stroke. My body remembered before my mind caught up.

So, while I’m not sure that everyone stores their memories in their bodies, I’m pretty sure that I do. And as I work on my body, I realize that all of the feelings I was keeping trapped in my stomach, ass and my thighs are coming to the surface, as my muscles get stronger my fat hovers above them, until it finally evaporates, leaving the feelings I’d stored in it behind when it goes. This is the first time I’ve ever used my body like this. This is the first time that I have ever liked my body. This is the first time I’ve ever thought of it as anything but imperfect; an annoyance. I’m sad that I spent my whole life being disconnected from myself. I’m sad for the little girl; and the girl in her twenties who didn’t get that her body belonged to her.

And I think some of that grief is just normal. Losing weight is just as traumatic as gaining it. And some part of me is sad that I won’t have the layers to defend myself anymore. Sad that I won’t be able to keep people at bay with my girth. Anyway, so I was feeling all these feelings at the bus stop, waiting for the 75 to carry me away from my musings when I stopped and I saw this written in sidewalk chalk. As I was taking this picture a couple walked by “I guess someone hit every stop” the boy said to the girl, looking down at the chalk.

I stared at it, after I’d gotten the picture just right, a little dumbfounded. For once my life felt scripted. I felt bad, and someone had written something on the sidewalk that cheered me up. It was like finding simplicity. All of a sudden, a station wagon pulled up to the bus-stop, and my friend St. Christopher opened his passenger door. I ran, up and got in. “You have 30 seconds or less to catch me up on your life.” He grinned at me. And I felt the glow of understanding that I always feel when I’m with him. Simpatico.

The rest of the night went quickly and easily. I made just enough money, and I got to flirt and talk to my friends. The bartenders were hot, and I got to fondle my friend Mark’s ass. Which somehow always makes me feel like a winner. By the end of the night I had enough money to pay my electric bill and get groceries.

So even though this losing weight thing isn’t easy, The Universe is providing me with comfort in my trials and tribulations. Thanks for listening, Internets.

Love,

Alisa

As some of you 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. Which are huge. So is my ass. We call my ass The Mountain. Well, we call it The Magic Mountain now (Thanks Asa!). I’m looking to get my ass down to normal size. This means we might have to sacrifice some boobs, but I’m willing to go down to a D cup (from my triple D’s) for the cause.

The Magic Mountain: Only the brave will climb it

Creston Pool opened about 3 weeks ago. It’s an outdoor pool, mostly filled with children getting swim lessons, and the 16 year old lifeguards who teach them. I do laps there in the afternoon, and try to swim around the pool on the weekends, while the pool is crowded with people just bobbing and screaming in a recreational attempt to get out of the heat. It’s weird to be the only fat chick at the pool. It’s especially weird to be the only adult swimming who doesn’t have a child taking lessons. Sometimes I eavesdrop on the lessons, trying to improve my strokes. I love swimming. I always have. I think it’s because I’m a cancer, and we’re crabs. But I also took swimming lessons every year from the time I was four until I was ten. My mother kept me in swim lessons for an extra long time, because she liked to flirt with my swim instructors. She was a young mother, younger then than I am now, and the boys who ran the pool liked flirting with her back. By the time I was 11, I actually got on the swim team, in Santa Clara. I competed and won some medals. And then I turned 12, and started to get self-conscious about my body, and the idea of wearing a bathing suit just sounded humiliating.

So, I forgot that the pool is a perfect place, where I’m always the right size, and it’s OK to be athletic, and nothing can hurt me while I’m swimming laps. Usually by the 25th minute of my work-out I have some sort of epiphany about work, or my feelings, or my life, that makes it all easier. And then I get out of the pool (a little wobbly as the leg I broke doesn’t exactly remember how to climb the pool ladder) and I feel muscular and strong.

I like to walk back home, on Powell, wearing my wet suit, letting it dry in the sun. I think of this as an exercise in loving the way I look in it; trying my best to like my body as it is, rather than wishing it was different. And while I swim, the sound of children laughing and learning things reassures me, bringing me back to a time when my life was simpler, and I was sure I was easy to like.

Last night I went out selling in Southeast Portland, and I met a whole lot of people who’ve been buying my cards for years, and are happy to see that I’m still doing it. It was like a nudge from the Universe saying: You’re still OK. You’re doing a good job. You just have to keep going. Between that and the Magic Mountain plan, I think this summer is going to turn out OK.

I just relisted some cards on my etsy site. Kitty AIDS has been one of my favorites. At first I thought it was a card I could send my grandmother, but recently I’ve realized that she’s actually Hella-Religious and she would probably get upset about me making fun of the baby Jesus this way. Then again, she does hate cats….

Love,

Alisa

As you know, not only do I sell Snarky Cards from a box that hangs beneath my boobs, I also sell my cards in stores. Most of my stores find me on etsy. Hey Tiger! is now one of those stores.

When Alicia contacted me asking if she could carry my cards, I was surprised and stoked. I mean, I never thought about Kentucky before. Being a loud-mouthed bitch, I always assumed that I wouldn’t have a good time in the South. I mean the South founded racism, and “Boys will be boys.” I’m against racism. And I think that boys should treat other people with respect, regardless of the fact that they have penis’s.

I’m not sure how I feel about Chivalry, which is also rumored to still be alive in the South. I mean; the concept of men being nice to women is nice. But it seems to me that a proper Southern Gentleman has got to pull out my chair, take off my coat, pay for shit, and ask me if I need help, like, all the fucking time. I hate it when people open the door for me. I’m the door opener. And I like paying for my own shit. And I can take off my own damn coat. That’s actually a weird thing, right? Were women in The Olden Days as weak as kittens? Why couldn’t they take off their coats by themselves?

Scarlet fever comes with a full body rash. Gross, right?

When I was in 5th grade I got sick. I  had mononucleosis. And Scarlet Fever. And then Mono again. I was sick all year long. I missed all but 20 days of 5th grade. My uncle and I were talking about it the other day. Everyone in our family has taken one year out of their life to be sick with a mysterious disease. Except the few members of the family who are sick all the fucking time.

“This is why I think your grandparents were brother and sister.”  I used a blaming voice. “Which ones?” he sounded interested in my theory. “Um…. I don’t know? Pick one. Whichever one you think. They’re fucking brother and sister. I’m tellin you, our genes are weak as shit.” Joel agreed with me that our genes kinda suck. But he didn’t seem sold on the inbreeding; I think I lost points for not knowing any of my great-grand-parents names.  Our people are religious white people. Had someone uncovered a pirate, or a prison sentence, or a Native American ancestor, or another loud-mouthed bitch (like me!) in the family line, I might have given a shit. But I come from a long line of boring white people. So I didn’t know the name of Joel’s grandparents. Someone talked about “Big Daddy” at a family reunion when I was 17. At the time I thought the nickname sounded like something you’d call out in a leather-Daddy-bear-sex-game. Therefore I didn’t want to encourage my father, uncle or any of the other adults in my life saying the words “Big Daddy” to me; my great-grandfather didn’t seem interesting enough to warrant me having to listen to his name repeated over and over again. I didn’t bring him up on purpose while talking to Uncle Joel.

So in my year of sickness, I got a tutor. He was old, he smelled, and his nose-hair was out-of-control. As far as I could tell, he was running a scam on the school district. He’d pretend to teach me, and I’d pretend he was teaching me. I figured he was so old, he must just need the health benefits, or something. Or maybe my Mom got out of him that he was still working because his wife was sick…? Anyway, the only things I was going to learn that year were things that I taught myself. It was the year that we learned the states names and capitals in school. It was also the year that a former student of Bracher Elementary School used the swing-set to hang himself. I was deeply disappointed that I wasn’t in school to see the dead body. And indifferent to the other states.

As I got older, I started just calling everything between California and New York “the middle”. I just assumed it was all an indistinguishable hicksville out there.

When I was 19, and living in Ireland, my friend Emily moved to Boston. She and I came back to the Silicon Valley about the same time. “You couldn’t survive in Boston.” She said, eyeing my green hair and my eyebrow piercing. “They all kinda dress the same. And you’d get a lot of weird looks.” I don’t dye my hair much anymore. And my eyebrow piercing fell out. But I am still a loud-mouthed bitch; who loves feminism, believes in abortion, and loves strong black men. I never expected to be popular anywhere but the edges of the country. Taking Boston off the list meant that I was down to the west coast and New York.

See? It's at the top!

But as I said in a recnt post: I’m a sucker for anyone who likes me. It’s my favorite quality in another person; their liking of me. And so, when Hey Tiger! emailed me from Louisville, KY, to ask about carrying my cards, I was super-surprised. And a little abashed that I wasn’t sure where Louisville was. It turns out, it’s kinda at the top of the state. Kinda on the Indiana/Kentucky Border.

Some pretty awesome people are from Louisville too: Muhammad Ali, Sue Grafton, Mildred and Patty Hill (who wrote “Happy Birthday”), Diane Sawyer, Gus Van Sant, 1/3 of Peter, Paul and Mary, Hunter S. Thompson, Maggie Lawson (hilarious chick on Psych!) and Rob Riggle of The Office, the Daily Show and Upright Citizens Brigade.

Louisville has been making a lot of medical advances in the last few years. And being one of the first major stops in the railroad, it is very good at shipping things. They also make 1/3 of all the Bourbon in the world, and of course: baseball bats.

It looks awesome, right?!

And now, Louisville will have Snarky Cards as well! Hey Tiger is a small boutique specializing in vintage clothes for sexy boys and girls. And hand-made items made by artists like me. They’re located 5 miles West from downtown Louisville. And Alicia sounds like the kinda girl who doesn’t go in for door opening or put up with racism. I think she also might be a loud-mouthed bitch. Apparently, we’re not limited to the edges of the country. Which is pretty rad. I’m happy, yet again that my bigotry against all things Not-West Coast has been proved wrong-headed.

I’m pleased to take Snarky Cards to Kentucky. And I’m kinda getting into this “learning the state’s names” thing. I’m hoping to spread my seed through-out the country in the next few years.

Thanks for digging my shit, wherever you are. Hopefully, news about Snarky Underwear are coming soon!

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. Like tonight, for instance, I went selling at The Sidestreet, and The Aalto. And then I made my way down to The Meridian Gold-dust. I stopped by Kelly’s Olympian, before I rounded out the night at Muu-Muu’s, O’Brien’s and 21st Ave Bar and Grill.

And now that my stupid birthday is over, I find myself feeling fewer feelings. And the few feelings I can feel are mostly relief and delight, that that horrible birthday is behind me. It seemed innocuous, right? I mean, it’s only 31. But it sure through me for a loop. Tonight before I left, I called my Uncle Joel. We swapped gossip, and talked some shit about our family. And then I filled him in on my life, and he filled me in on his. I sold a lot of cards tonight, and I got to grab a lot of hot ass. And cute boys smoked me out (Leroy). My regulars were happy to see me, and the kids who hadn’t seen Snarky Cards before were happy I stopped by.

All in all, it was an art-prostitutes dream. All of that whine-ing about my aged-ness brought me up short on rent this month. So I’ll be out slinging my wares all week. If any of you fuckers would like me to stop by anyplace in particular, drop me a line. In the meantime, I’ll see your drunk-ass at the bar.

Love,

Alisa

Is it me, or are these two going to make an Awesome Baby?

As some of you know, today I turned 31. And today Snarky Cards is 3.

And I’ve been having a lot of mental anguish over my family. So, it’s been hard to convince myself to celebrate my birth, or the birth of my loud-mouthed, bitchy company. But I have good news! Two pieces of good news!

First: Thank God for faulty birth control. Usually I don’t believe in faulty birth control. It always sounds like bullshit to me. I mean, there’s a 3% chance that birth control doesn’t work. It seems like there are a lot more babies attributed to faulty birth control than that. And I really hate it when people don’t own their shit. But right now, I love faulty birth control. I believe in faulty birth control. It’s my favorite thing. It’s real and it happens to regular people. That or, Stephenie’s got super-hero sperm. Which is what he keeps telling me. My brother, Stephanie, has knocked up his girlfriend, Christina. They are delighted. But I am more delighted. I don’t think that there’s any way for me to be more excited about another person. I now call Stephenie once a week to get updates on Baby Awesome. And I’ve been racking my brain, trying to remember all of the horrible things that he’s done in order to blackmail him into actually naming the baby Awesome. So far, Stephanie has declined. Almost all of the other names they are actually considering are Alisa-approved.

Here is Awesome’s first picture. Stephenie has very kindly circled all of the important parts of Awesome’s features, which may be hard to make-out, because Awesome is, at present, very, very tiny. Awesome will grace us with his or her presence on or around January 22, 2011. So, on this momentous occasion of my birth, and the birth of Snarky Cards, we will look forward to the birth of my new family, Baby Awesome, Stephenie, Christina, and Claire, finally becoming “That lady who lives with your Aunt.”.

This may be a good time for me to explain something. Stephenie is a boy. He was born Stephen Daniel Shumaker. I call him Stephenie because I was a really mean older sister. When he was 8, Joy and I gave him a choice. We would call him Stephenie or Becky. Becky was an option because our parents were convinced he was a girl, and had planned to name him Rebecca. It was a mean (but hilarious!) nickname, which somehow became less mean and more endearing. As most nicknames do, in time. I also tried to make him gay when he was in high-school. (because what’s more awesome than having a gay brother? Nothing.) It almost worked. I got him wearing my prom dress, shaving his legs, dating guys, and hanging out at the Billy De Frank Center. Which is the only gay community center in Santa Clara, CA. I tried to make him start smoking when he was 11. So, while it isn’t miraculous that he knocked up the illustrious and amazing Christina, it is however, miraculous that he thinks it’s a good idea for me to be around Baby Awesome at all.

Secondly: My cousin Deanna and I are going to be working, this summer on Snarky Cards Undies. They should be available in the next month or so. The first pair will be American Apparel Boy Briefs, with “Fuck you and your fucking Feelings.” We’ll have them available in stores, and online. This picture is a facsimile of what they’ll look like.

I’ll give you updates, while I work on them.

These are the two projects that gave me some solace. This birthday has been the hardest that I’ve had in a long time. When I started Snarky Cards I gave it three years. I thought that by the third year I’d have a book deal, and an apparel line, and I’d be mass producing them across the country. I probably would have gotten that far, had I had any funding. Which I also expected to get. But, finding funding, and a publishing company interested in producing a book of Snarky Cards has, thus far, eluded me. I’m continually surprised by the rejection that I’ve gotten from major and minor publishing companies. I’ve now sold 29.705 Snarky Cards. I have them in stores in Seattle, San Francisco, Eugene, and Salem, Oregon, Louisville, Kentucky, Brooklyn, NY, Detroit, and -of course- Portland. That’s five states and seven cities. It seems clear to me that a book would sell well.

Anyway, I thought it would be much farther along by now. My other project for the summer is to lose weight. When I was 20, I started therapy. And I gained about 40 pounds. As time went by, I gained another 20 pounds. For the last five years or so I’ve hovered around 200 pounds. But then I broke my leg, and I gained another 40. This summer I realized I was done carrying all this weight around. I think, in my 20′s, the weight comforted me. It separated me from the person I’d been when I was younger. My larger body was not the same one that had been abused. I liked being part of the big girls club. I liked my big boobs.

But my back hurt. And it kept getting worse. And this year I realized that if I lost all the weight, and replaced a lot of it with muscles, I could probably stop seeing my chiropractor. So, this summer, I’m losing the magic mountain that was my ass. And I’m going for a flat stomach. I’m eating more healthily, and I’ve started to find some solace in exercise. Now a nice long walk will clear my head, almost as completely as weed does.

So, I was hoping that I would be thin (and possibly buff), and outrageously successful by now. And I think I’ve been really hard on myself for the last couple of weeks, because instead of being super-thin and internationally famous; I’m thinner than I was, and moderately successful. It feels like failure.

Joel had this picture taken of the two of us at Kelly's Olympian. We look pretty good, right?

Yesterday I woke up feeling terrible too. I walked around the apartment in my pj’s moaning about my life, checking my neck for wrinkles, eyeing my tummy. This week my friend Matt turned 40. I went to his birthday party, and it was fun. Usually I spend parties thinking “I should be working.” But this time, I let it go.I didn’t even bring my cards, I talked to people all night, not the Snarky Card Chick, just Alisa. Matt was drunk, and happy. And the party was packed. Everyone there was so happy to be there. It felt like a real celebration of Matt. “You know, I never thought I’d live this long.” His porch looks out on Broadway, and the city lights were luminous behind him. “I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

While I was moaning around the apartment Claire tried to think of things to say to cheer me up. “You don’t look 31.” She soothed. Nothing seemed to work. When I thought she’d given up she said “You know what? Matt’s party the other night was so great. If I have a party like that when I’m 40, I’ll be so glad. There were all kinds of people there, all ages, and all kinds. And Matt was so hot. And he was making out with his boyfriend all night. And it was so beautiful.”  Somehow, that propelled me out into the night with my cards. And I made it as far as Kelly’s Olympian, which is one of my happy places. People recognized me as I walked through the door. A few girls shreiked “You’re here! I want some cards!” and a few boys said “Hey, I’ve heard of you. Can I see some cards?” which made me feel kinda famous. I had some celebratory whiskey. I went over to Mike’s house, where I drank more and hung out with him, and Todd (also of the famed Fenbi) and we got more plastered. Mike announced that he was going to church today. I said I’d go with him.

Which is why I found myself hung-over and surrounded by hippies at 11am this morning. I was miserable. Mike was a champ. I was pouty, and hung-over, and convinced that my life sucked. “I’m fat, and ugly, and I’m going to die alone.” I whined. Mike just made reassuring noises and hugged me. “I’m going to become a spinster.” I moaned later. “What’s a spinster?” Mike asked, reminding me that men don’t live in constant fear of becoming an old-maid. And I didn’t used to either.

And somehow, in the middle of the inspirational talk that Science of Mind pastors call a sermon, I started to realize that I can’t be this hard on myself forever. The service forced me to be quiet. Instead of whining or pouting or trying to be funny, I sat quietly in my pew, with tears running down my cheeks, trying to give up all of the shit I’ve been piling on myself. Mike occasionally patted my hand, to let me know that I wasn’t alone. But he seemed just as absorbed as I was in the message.

We had a hangover breakfast at Holman’s, and then I went home, where I laid in The Nest (a pile of blankets and pillows we keep in our living room) and Claire got me things. I got birthday texts from friends all day, but all I wanted to do was sleep away my alcohol poisoning. I took a nap, waking up to twilight. The cats cowered and Claire and I stood on our porch, watching our neighbors fireworks. She went to Safeway, to pick me up a birthday dinner, and on the street, halfway between our apartment and the store, she found us a new recliner for the living room.

She came home to get me out of The Nest, and we spent the next half hour pushing the damn thing back to our apartment, with the fireworks going off all around us. “It feels kind of apocalyptic.” She said, in wonderment. “Um, I think the apocalypse will be less celebratory.” We were very, very stoned. It’s been 5 years since I moved to Portland, and I’ve never gotten used to the idea of legal fireworks. This is Claire’s first 4th of July in Oregon. “You know there are going to be a lot of handless people tomorrow.” I predicted darkly. “Why isn’t everything catching on fire?” She asked. Finally, we rested in the parking lot of the strip club across the street from our place.

Angela Lansbury can be very comforting.

As we caught our breaths, she twirled around, gaping at the pretty lights in the sky. “What if the propaganda we grew up with is wrong?” She sounded puzzled. “What if when people set off their own fireworks they don’t blow their hands up and set their neighborhoods on fire?” I looked around us thoughtfully. “Well. Maybe everything we heard growing up was wrong. Let’s wait for the news tomorrow, and see how many fires and missing limbs are reported, and then decide whether to turn our backs on everything we believe in.” It’s comfortable and not-smelly. And it made us feel luxurious. We took turns sitting in it, while watching Murder She Wrote.

And somehow, I got through it. Thanks to Kelly’s Olympian, and my enthusiastic customers, friends, cats, and Claire, I made it through. And now that it’s over, I’m ready to make the underwear and lose my weight. And I plan to spend the next month figuring out how to be nicer to myself. And also: I didn’t plan on sticking with Snarky Cards after 3 years. I figured whatever size the company was by now, I’d sell it, and use the fame I’d garnered to leverage me a job writing television scripts. I didn’t make any plans for Snarky Cards beyond now. I can’t walk away from it just as it’s getting exciting. So, I’m going to spend the summer figuring out a new timeline for Snarky Cards Success. Maybe something a little more realistic this time.

Thanks for all the Happy Birthday Wishes, and thanks for digging my shit.

Love,

Alisa

As some of you may know, I am friends with Fenbi: The Best Band On Earth. Mike, the front-man from the group, has a regular job. Or, you know, a career as a marketing god. Bill Carter is one of his projects. He’s been talking about Bill for a long time, and I listened to him talk, because I’m a good friend, but I always thought of Bill as an abstract. Not a real person, but a project.

And I’m a busy girl. I don’t do a lot of things that are not working. But I’ve been trying to change that, since it’s come to my attention that not hanging out with my friends might increase my depression. So, when Mike sent out the last call to all of his people saying “Bill Carter is speaking tonight, I know you wanna come! And it’s free!” I said. Well, I said “I don’t know, I have to go out selling tonight, Mike.”

Hot and deep, who could ask for anything more?

But 7pm came rolling around, and I was tired, and hungry and I wanted to hang out with Mike. An idea that wouldn’t have occurred to me if he hadn’t woken me up at the ungodly hour of 10am. So, I called him and asked if he wanted to go to dinner. And he said “Um, hello? I’m about to start my show? Bill Carter, remember?” So, I gave up and went to see this guy speak.

I was late. I’m always late, but I got there. A cute guy wandering the halls had to let me in. “You’re Mike’s friend?” he asked. I smiled and nodded, shyly. Bill, turned out to the be the cute guy, who was wandering the halls because they were showing a clip of his film, Miss Sarajevo, and he has a hard time watching it. Because it was filmed in the war-zone of Sarajevo, when he lived there. And it sucked. And it was awesome. And sometimes it gives him the shakes to think about it.

I missed the film clip entirely. But I spent the next two hours listening to Bill recount the war he became involved in. Before I went to hear Bill talk, I knew a few things about Bosnia. My friend, Marin, who I used to drink with in high school, was from Croatia. He was hilarious. And intense, and he liked to start shit. Eventually, I believe, he fucked my sister on a beach. And once he showed me pictures of the Croation beaches. While Bill talked, I realized that Marin showed up at school in 1994. He must have been fleeing his country just as the war started. He never talked about it. But then again, he was busy drinking and chasing my sister.

In 1999 Kosovo was raging. As an angry 19 year old girl, I wanted to go help Kosovo. I didn’t know what I would have done. I probably hoped to do something dangerous. But, in truth, I would have been happy to change bandages and offer comfort. It seemed like horrible acts were being committed against people who had done nothing. At 19, that felt a lot like my life. And I wanted to stick up for the people who were being hurt. Like I tried to stick up for me. Someone’s mother talked me out of it. My parents would have probably liked a martyr as a daughter (as dead daughters are easier to love than live ones), but this women was sure that putting myself in danger was a bad idea. She didn’t seem to like me very much, but she seemed very sure I shouldn’t sacrifice my safety in order to help others. Her ardency countered mine.

And so I filled out a form online, but didn’t pursue it further, more because I was intrigued with this brand of motherhood she had presented. In her world, my mother would be hurt if I got killed in a war zone. I liked the idea of a mother who cared about me like that. Even if she was a fictional mother, that this Australian woman had made up, the thought of that kind of parent was enough to stop me from hitch-hiking my way through Europe in an effort to help keep people safe in a war zone.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I’d be if I’d gone to Kosovo.  I like to think I’d be a lot like Bill.

As I watched him talk, I realized that Mike is right. Bill is a genius. A hot ball of energy, who loves really hard, and swears well, and tells the truth, intensely who has no problem saying “I don’t know” rather than bullshitting. Watching him was breath-taking. In some ways, he reminded me of me.

This book is beautiful and important. And it has some really hot sex in it.

I bought Miss Sarajevo, his documentary about Sarajevo and Fools Rush In, his book. Reading Fools Rush In was like being submerged in a beautiful, scary, drunken world. I alternately devoured and savored it. I wouldn’t let myself read it unless I was on the bus, going to or from work. I wouldn’t open it at home, because I knew if I did I would just sit. Until I’d finished the whole thing. (Snarky Cards don’t make themselves, I can’t afford to sit around finishing books when I could be painting or typing). When I read it, I gave every sentence some serious thought, delighting in the fact that I had become so consumed by it, my own life seemed like a dim memory.

By the time I’d finished it, I was in love with Bill Carter. I pined for him. He’s so heartbroken and grief-stricken through-out the whole story, I was so glad that we’d met, because I spent a good amount of time, worrying that he wouldn’t find love again. When I’d find myself in the middle of this worry, I would remind myself. “You met Bill. He’s happily married. His wife is good at Scrabble. Chill, Alisa.” Bill is one of those people who believes in magic, and love tethers him to his life.

I’m not one of those people. My work tethers me to my life. And love, more often than not, seems like too much to hope for. I admire people who can fall hopelessly and deeply in love. And while I was reading his book, I got to fall in love like that too. It was exhilarating. The idea of loving like that terrifies me. I have a hard time trusting men enough to let them get that close. And even if I trust them, I have a hard time trusting me. That kind of thing has been coming up more and more lately. I think my childhood has been haunting me. It usually does, around my birthday, but this year has been worse. Some of the shit that happened to me when I was a little girl made me think I wasn’t loveable. Some of it made me think that I was a bad person. And my wires got crossed. So, most of my adult life, I’ve been trying to change the penchant I have for men who hurt me. It’s been hard, because I was raised to believe that all men would like to hurt me. And there’s really nothing I can do about it. So differentiating between bad men and good men isn’t easy.

I think a lot of this shit has gotten stirred up because I started talking to my parents again. Well, that’s not accurate; I have been talking to them for the last year or so. But in the last few months, they have created some crazy-ass plans, and suddenly, we’re not just having stilted conversation every other month. They are moving to Turkey because a demon told them that he and his legion were preparing for their final battle here on earth. He told them this as they were casting him out of a person. They wanted me and my sister to help them empty, organize and then sell their house. The house where I grew up. The house where all of the abuse I experienced in my childhood took place. A house I had hoped to never enter again.

“So, I heard a demon told you to go to Turkey?” I asked my mother on the phone. “Of course not!” she laughed. “Good, because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be getting reliable information if you are getting it from a minion of Satan.” I really was relieved. And in this moment before she explained I was so happy. My parents aren’t crazy. They’re nice to me. My childhood was a bad dream. These are different people.

“No, we hold a high court, with God, after we cast the demon out. And we ask God how long the demon has been in our lives. He told us to go to Turkey.” She assured me. “Well. God’s a much more reliable source than Satan. So, I guess that sounds less insane.” I was cavalier, as she giggled uncertainly. And in that moment, I became a little unhinged. My parents are still the insane, abusive people who raised me. They have changed, they have made some progress. They have said that they were sorry about what they did to me (with some prompting). But they are still religious zealots, committed to their own, unnerving brand of religiosity. They’re the same people who have been kicked out of at least one church for their weird beliefs. They are still the people who hurt me.

Mary Chapin-Carpenter said “We’ve all got two lives, one we’re given and the other one we make”. In my most clear moments, I understand that all of that is in the past. That they are part of the life I was given. And I am now firmly planted into the life I made. But, since my parents pronounced their insane plan, I’ve been slipping in and out of time. Losing the confidence I’ve earned. Becoming the little girl who was afraid of her father’s rage. Or the teen-ager who’d been told I’d be raped every day by my mother, because of what I wore.

Bill’s book was a mirror of how I’ve been feeling. He weaved his past lives together, shifting between an abusive childhood, the act of falling in love, and living on chocolate baby-food in a warehouse, without heat, power or water in the middle of a siege.

His shitty childhood comforted me. I mean, he didn’t have it much easier than I did. And yet, he still dives right into love.

I saved Miss Sarajevo for when I’d finished Fools Rush In. I was nervous. If it made Bill nervous, how was it going to make me feel? I’ve been trying to be careful, the last couple of weeks as my childhood keeps flitting through my mind my emotions have been veering out of my control. And I need to be happy in order to sell things. I need to be calm. Or at least, I need to not want to cry all the time. So, if I deemed something emotionally draining, or if I thought that watching/doing/talking to someone would make me feel bad, I steered clear. But his book was beautiful. And so I steeled myself for a good cry, and turned it on.

The movie, it turns out, is a visual guide to the book. I’m glad I waited to see it, because I was watching it thinking “Oh, this is Vlad after he goes a little crazy because all of his friends are killed. This is the satellite link-up Bill did when he was really depressed. This is the gorgeous little girl singing Ace of Base in a broken down VW.” The idea that most intrigued me, from the book, is the Miss Sarajevo beauty contest that Sarajevo held, in the middle of the war. I’m not one for beauty pageants, but somehow, knowing that the people who attended this one had to run past snipers shooting at them, to attend, made it sweet. And important. The sign that they held “Please don’t let them kill us.” is poignant. And it means that this pageant wasn’t just for the people of the city. It was also a message to the world. “We still exist. We need your help. We are trying to live.”

And somehow, when faced with the senseless violence that befell an entire city for years; my problems seem smaller. And with that perspective, I try to balance my inability to trust men and my fears that I am too broken by the past, against the success of my cards, and the fame I’ve garnered for my tits and my tongue. When I pit them against each other, they come out a wash. And I’m grateful to Bill, for lending me courage, and telling me his story, and making me fall for him a little bit.

So, seriously dude, you should probably read his shit.

Love,

Alisa

As some of you know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. And, I also sell them in stores. In fact, my etsy store seems to work as an online advertising tool, more than a place for commerce. I don’t sell my cards online very often, but I’ve been getting one store a month from all over the country, asking about Snarky Cards because they saw them on etsy.

Noir Leather is not one of those stores. Six months ago, Kim emailed me. She was starting a new business in Portland; Cigarrette Girls. She’d buy candy, and some trays, and the girls would wander in and out of the bars of Portland selling things from their chest that drunk people want, but can’t get for themselves.

Kim wanted my advice, since at present the two people selling things in the bars of Portland are me and The Rose Guy. Who is pushy, and annoying, and harbors secret homosexul feelings, and has a tendency of groping straight guys, while trying to bully them into buying a rose for their straight-guy friends. At least once a night a customer tells me “Thank God you’re not The Rose Guy! That guy’s a dick!” He’s been banned (for being a dick) from a lot of the bars that I sell in. So I didn’t start seeing him in action until the last six months or so, and within 15 minutes of me watching him in action for the first time, he totally was trying to give an innapropriate massage to one of my favorite regulars. I almost died laughing. The thing is, The Rose Guy is married. He sometimes makes his wife go out selling with him. And I’m pretty sure that I’ve heard that he has kids too. Which is why his homosexual feelings are secret and they leak out of him at innapropriate times, and in ways that make other people uncomfortable. I think of him as a walking lesson in accepting yourself. Either dig yourself the way you are or become an angry troll who annoys and enrages strangers, and whose sexual advances are both unwanted and abhorred.

If you live in PDX, and you'd like a job selling candy and cigarettes in bars, essentially being this hot girl, leave me a message. I can totally hook you up!

Anyway, so Kim asked me for help. I made her a list of all the bars I like going to, with a little write up of what to expect from each bar. I loved giving her the downlow on my job. I don’t have co-workers, and so I don’t really get to chat about the more mundane parts of my job with anyone. It was fun. “But this isn’t going to be the hardest part.” I warned her. “You’re going to have a hard time finding people who want to do ‘work’ in Portland. I mean, money isn’t really a huge motivator here.” Kim is from Detroit, and works for Target. She has kind of a regular job, and she just got here. So, she didn’t really beleive me.Two months later, she sent me an email saying something like “You’re right. What’s with people in this town? Why aren’t they into working?” I just laughed.

I moved to Portland, initially, because I wanted to go back to school. I grew up in the Silicon Valley. And I started working there at the height of the dot com boom. Most of my working career I’ve spent in the Silicon Valley, where everyone is trying to shape their good idea into a brilliant business. Everyone is trying to get ahead- you have to to survive there. I’ve worked 90 hours a week for most of my adult life. Part of the reason I wanted to live in Portland in the first place is because my friend Cara promised me the life was slower here. I had just gone back to school, and I wanted to go to school full-time without having to also work full-time. I was tired. And hungry. And frustrated. “People can live while only working 30 hours a week.” she told me. I was sold.

After competing in the San Jose rat-race for 10 years, I was burned out. And the idea of a place where people work in order to finance their life, and stop working in order to go out and have that life. And so I moved to Portland, ostensibly to continue to work on my Bachelors Degree in Psychology.

But, it turns out that I don’t want to be a psychologist. They don’t always get to tell their patients the brutally honest truth. Which is kinda my thing. And shrinks are usually crazy. That’s why they become shrinks, to fix their inner crazy-person. And you’re not always allowed to call your co-workers out on the crazy shit they haven’t fixed. So, I’d be surrounded by crazy people all the time, and I wouldn’t be able to confront them about their shit.

Who could torture these adorable monkeys? Harlow you dick.

And also: when I took Intro to Psychology it turns out that psychologists use a lot of animal torture to help us understand understandable pheonomon’s. Like the time that this Asshole named Harlow wanted to know if babies need comfort. So he deprived baby monkey’s of comfort. What kind of fuck-witt wonders about the necesity of comfort? That guy was just a dick, who liked taking out his personal problems on baby monkeys. And I don’t think I can justify being part of a profession whose basic ideals are based on information they got from monkey torture. Also: I don’t want to be part of a group of people who have had to ask themselves “Do people need comfort?” in seriousness.

I made this card for me. My birthday is coming up, and I'd like some make-out.

So, instead of becoming a psychologist, I started Snarky Cards. I know that recently I’ve done a lot of bitching about Portland. I think in my mind, I always felt bad about leaving the Silicon Valley. I left it in part, because I couldn’t keep taking jobs I hated to barely survive; I wanted to pursue my dreams in a less pressurized environment. And, at that point, I had lost two of my best friends to an ill-thought out love affair they embarked on with each other, my sister had abandoned me and I hadn’t had a boyfriend in 5 years. It felt like I was ejected from the Bay Area. I was never convinced that it was all my choice.

Since then, I’ve mended some of my friendships. And some of my other relationships with Californians have gotten stronger. I’ve maintained a casual fling with a boy in Santa Cruz for the last couple of years. And I’ve been feeling like maybe I should just give up and move back. But the last time I went back (as you might have read) it sucked. Reminding me that there are lots of reasons that I don’t want to move back. Money isn’t the only one. Ruling it out as my fantasey-alternative home made me start looking at Portland differently. I live here. And I choose to live here. So, I need to accept the good and the bad of the city. So, instead of being like “Fucking lazy ass hipsters! What the fuck?!? I have no idea why they’re like that. But, really, how much can you blame on the fucking weather?” I’ve been thinking “Isn’t it interesting that I moved here because I wanted to live in a place where people like living their life poor and working less, and now that drives me crazy?”

Anyway, so Kim gave up on her business idea, or at least put it on the back-burner because she couldn’t find the labor. But, she and I are still friends. And she still loves Snarky Cards. So when she went back to Detroit, a few months ago, she asked me if she could sell Snarky Cards, from a box that hangs beneath her boobs, in The City Of Champions. (No shit, that’s a legitimate nickname for the city. Wickipedia said so). So, armed with 100 Snarky Cards, Kim spread the good news through-out the city, while she drank her way through a weeklong friend-fest.

This is an event The Ritz threw, the bondage gear was provided by Noir. See what I mean about them being hard-core?

While she was there, she sold Snarky Cards to Noir Leather; one of Detroit’s oldest sex-positive toy stores. They’ve been around for 26 years. And they specialize in Leather gear for S&M play. They have a leather crafter on staff, for custom peices. They’re probably the most hard-core store to carry my cards. It’s been 2 months, and they seem to have sold all of the dirty cards that Kim sold them. And I just sent them a new stack of the dirtiest cards I could find.

Our Madge: Around the time she declared that she would rule the world

I decided I wanted to be a writer when I was 6 years old. When I was 19 years old, I saw a video of Madonna, as a 24 year old, on Dick Clark. She had been declared a one-hit wonder.And Dick Clark seemed like he was humoring her more than anything else when he asked what she was going to do next, now that her song “Holiday” had peaked on the charts.You might remember that she grabbed the mike and shouted “I’m going to rule the world!”. Everyone around her cheered. She seemed so delighted with herself. I was mesmerized. It occurred to me then that 1. Ruling the world is possible. and 2. Madonna had a plan. And she executed that plan well. I could create a plan, like Madonna, and then execute it well. Since then, I’ve been wondering exactly how I’m going to be famous and a writer, watching the small businesses I’ve worked in, trying to figure out how they worked, and why they sometimes didn’t. When I started Snarky Cards, I came up with a 3 pronged approach to expanding sales, and as I’ve gone along, I’ve explored several different plans for taking it farther. But so far it’s been pretty simple in that: people seem to like Snarky Cards. And people keep buying Snarky Cards.

I’ve never thought about Detroit before, except when I notice that people with Michigan accents are cute. People who live in Campbell, Santa Clara, San Jose, San Francisco, and all the little cities in between tend to think that they are living in the center of the world. And in the 80′s and 90′s, while I was growing up there, we were the center of the world. Google was founded in Mountain View, which is the first place I’ve ever had sex. When I was 20 I had an interview with Napster; the company that invented music file-sharing. Yahoo, Apple, The Internets, they all grew up with me. I assumed that California was the center of the Universe too. I thought that if I was famous in California that that would be enough. I was shocked, last month to discover that I didn’t want to live there anymore.

And even more than that, I feel a rush of pride, when I add another store from another state to my Snarky Card list. (Which also intonates that California is no longer the center of the Universe in my head) Adding Noir Leather makes me feel like my Rule The World plan is working. And it also helped me shed some of my state-snobbery. After all, I like anybody who likes me. And if Detroit likes me, it must be pretty swell itself. So, thanks Noir Leather, for being hard-core and liking bondage, genital mutilation, golden showers, vibrators, dildo’s, anal plugs, whips, chains, rubber hoods, leather imprint paddles, extreme ass spreaders, milking sticks, anal scopes, urethra dilators and Snarky Cards!

Love,

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