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

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

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

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

They want to find a serial killer near you!

Dear Internets,

Last night I was up until 8am painting Snarky Cards. I love painting for hours and hours. But that meant that I watched 6 hours of Criminal Minds in a row (I only ever paint with television. Life is harder without television). And I realized something. All of the serial killers are within my dating age range. Some of them are my age.

So, in all probability, I’m going to sleep with a serial killer someday. If I haven’t already. I hope I already have. I have a ten year ceiling on my dating range. I’ll break the rule, if you’re a hot 41 year old, but for the most part, I just say no to dudes older than 40. But, when I’m, say 35, I’ll definitely be dating guys up to 45. And if I date a serial killer then,  he’ll be totally past killing prostitutes, and moving into killing regular people.

And I don’t want to get serial killed. But I especially don’t want to get serial killed by someone I’ve slept with. That would be, like, way worse than getting serial killed by a stranger. Because then I would have to blame my death on my Vagina. And my Mom would be right about me.

Love,

Alisa

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