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

Dear Internets,

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

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

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

I’m still working on the next installment of the story of my broken leg. However, while I haven’t been able to walk for the last 6 weeks, I’ve been able to Internet. So, I’ve been updating my etsy site. And I’m happy to tell you that there are a lot more Snarky Cards now available online. I’m working on getting the online store for Superalisa.com up and running too, but that will take a while longer.

So, until then, I hope you enjoy all of the new cards on http://snarkycards.etsy.com. The descriptions, as usual are peppered with stories of my Vagina. And my painting has gotten seriously awesome.

Help my crippled ass! Come to the Saving Super-Alisa Party!

If you see something you like, please order it. My online sales are paying my bills this month. And if you live in Seattle, and you want to help, my sister is throwing me a fund-raiser! It’s called Saving Super-Alisa! it’s on Friday, March 30th, at 8:30 pm, at Waid’s Restaurant and Lounge.  and it’ll will help me pay my rent this month, as I still can’t walk. So, there’ll be dancing and drinking, and in the end I’ll be able to come home and buy food! And kitty litter! My crippled ass would love to see your hot one.

Love,
Alisa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and Arlette at our favorite bar in San Francisco

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Alisa

Dear Internets,

 As you may know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. They will crack you the fuck up. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Mostly, I sell them in Portlandia. And sometimes, I sell them in San Francisco, where my bad-ass bitches reside. Even more sometimes, I sell them in Seattle, where my sister lives.

Recently, in the middle of my life-philosophy-blowing  Thing, I also went back to San Jose, from whence I came, and confronted my parents about their abuse, and explained to them, that no matter how nice they would like to be to me now, it doesn’t make up for the shit they did to me before. And we’re not going to have a relationship.The depths of my despair meant that I couldn’t do any of that shit at home. I think I was left alone too long with my feelings or something. Because after a while, I was crying every day. For hours. And nobody came to check on me. And after a little while, my abandonment issues started sounding alarms. And then the fact that I was sad didn’t matter. The fact that nobody checked on me was the problem. I felt alone. And I was sure that I’d been right all along, and everyone will leave me eventually, because who could ever learn to love a loud-mouthed-big-assed-titty-showing-bitch? (I have illustrated both my big ass and my titty-showing above, for those of you who would like to see more boobs and ass to get you through this long-ass emotional post.)

All of this line-drawing, boundary-having, combined with all this relationship-having (and then Not Having) has left me…drained. I found myself in “the depths of despair” to quote Anne of Green Gables. And I couldn’t figure out how to snap myself out of it. Eventually my shrink suggested drugs. Or, she strongly recomended, that I call my friends and ask them to come help me. Which is hard. I hate asking for help. But more than that, I hate pills. I love weed, but pills kinda give me the heebie-jeebies. And so, when people suggest I take them, I try to fix my shit, so that I don’t find myself at a pharmacists’s mercy. So, I called my sister. And she said “Come to Seattle. Bring you paint, and your cards. I’ll buy you a train ticket, and you can stay here, and work until you feel better.”

So, I’ve been hiding out, in her apartment on Capital Hill, painting and thinking, and smoking weed, and worrying about how I got myself into this hole. Joy has been a goddess. Sometimes, when we’re together we’re 15 again, and everything we do is hilarious, and a little mean. And sometimes we’re in our thirties, trying to figure out how to be kind to each other, only after recently ending our five-year-war. For most of our childhood’s we were on each other’s sides. We kept each other safe. But in our twenties we became different people, or more ourselves than we had been.

THis was my motto for the last ten years. Well, maybe my motto was more like "Be alone, fuck often".

Joy falls into relationships easily, and stays for as long as she can stand it. I avoid contact. I like sex, but I think, for the most part, I haven’t really trusted men. And it’s easier to fuck ‘em and leave ‘em than it is to trust them to be nice to me. And due to said shitty childhood, I’ve had really crap taste in men. And I always thought, if I’m gonna have shitty taste in men, I might as well keep contact with them brief and to the point.

But my inability to pull myself out of this funk has trumped all that. We may annoy the fuck out of each other, but in the end, she wants me to be OK. And I think I just needed that feeling. I think I just needed to stay with someone who gave a shit that I was OK. Portland is a wonderful town, but I don’t think I have a lot of friends there. And even if I did, I don’t have anyone who wants to take care of me. Who will check in, because they know I’m going through something hard. So, I’ve been sleeping on her couch, watching her dress her friends up for parties, and eating her yummy food. And after a day or two, I was able to start painting again, and then I was able to start typing. And then I started selling in Seattle.

Anyway, that all seems to be changing. I think that the depths of my despair come, not from a break-up, like I first thought, but from me, creating a new person inside of myself. My shrink likes it when I do this. She calls it cocooning, and she gets this look in her eyes, like I’d make a good case study. I sit around, and I make art, and I think about who I’ve been, and what I thought, and I get rid of some stuff, and I figure out what to keep. And in the end, I have more self esteem. And I take less shit. And I tell people how I feel, and what I need quicker. It takes a lot of sleeping, and some crying. And I have to talk to somebody who knows me, and can talk me down, when I climb myself up a tree, with all of my crazy-thinking.

Like, last night, when I tried to pin all of my bad feelings on Magnum, and Arlette wasn’t having it. “You just got stretched too thin.” she chided. “You tried to do a lot of hard things at once, and now you’re a little vulnerable. But don’t blame Magnum for all of this. No relationship can knock you down this much. And you’re not broken, you’re just a little delicate now. You’ll recharge. And no GUY will ever shake you up this much. This is your family, and your parents, and your identity.”

This is Jenny, one of Joy's crew, in the middle of before-the-party-dress-up!

So, I’ve been hibernating at Joy’s. And her life is fucking amazing. Her friends all live a block away from her. And they all wander as a group from house to house, carrying weed and beer with them as they go, trying on each other’s clothes, telling each other funny stories, making or eating food, and generally preparing for the next party, knowing full well, that the party they’re already at will be better than wherever their going. Her friends come over, to do all of those things, whether Joy’s there or not. And so

Yuriko and Marissi getting ready to party!

I’ve been admitted into this club, forced to hang out with her hilarious and kind friends. And being surrounded by people has helped me with the cocoon thing. I miss my cats. But so far, I don’t seem to miss PDX much.

Seattle, it turns out is much more marvelous than even I had anticipated. The people here are smart, and funny and they are trying to figure out sex and themselves, and dating, and friendship. I’ve been trying out some new bars. And I think I’ve made some friends. There are a few cute boys that I have some simpatico with, who might wanna hang out in the future. Everyone seems to dig Snarky Cards. And Snarky Tits. And life in this town is a lot less bleak than life in Portland has been. “So, move and have sex, and make friends, and be around people who actually do stuff. Portland is where hipsters go to die.” Arlette recited, in a bored tone of voice. She’s been trying to get me to move for ages. And you, Dear Internets, might have noticed, that I haven’t been happy in PDX for a while. “Well, you told me a year ago, that you couldn’t live in Portland for longer than a year.” Claire said. “So it’s about time you moved.”

This is my newest painting, for sale at Twilight this Thursday!

So, I’m trying to figure out how to make it work. I’m checking Craiglist. I’m mentally packing up my house. I’m figuring out the logistics of getting my ass from Portland, to Seattle. Along with all of my shit, and my cats.

Until I go back and pack up my Pdx life, I’ll be out in Seattle, selling my Snarky Cards, mostly haunting Capital Hill, working on paying my last month’s rent in Portland. And on Thursday, I’ll be debuting my new paintings, and typing Custom Snarky Cards at Twilight Artist Collective.

Come check out my new shit, and celebrate my newly declared Seattle Love at Twilight Artist Collective on Thursday, May 12th, from 6-9pm. I’ll be typing up a storm. And I’d love to make your life easier, by writing you some hilarious and angry Snarky Cards.

Love,

Alisa

Me at The Triple Nickel

Dear Internets,

For those of you who don’t 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. They will crack you the fuck up.

Lately, as you might have heard in my last post, I’ve been caught up in a post-break-up haze of miserable-ness. Which has severely crippled my ability to eat, sleep and work. It’s not just the break-up. It’s probably also the fact that I had a relationship in the first place. I’ve been so good at just fucking guys in bars for the last ten years. And it’s served me well. I’ve never had to deal with so many pesky feelings before.

Being slutty has kept me safe from this kind of hurt for a long time. Sigh. I miss being a total whore.

I kept being surprised when the phenomenal sex between me and Magnum (Seriously. It was like, primal shit. My orgasms were longer, and deeper than ever. It was the craziest shit I’ve ever done with another person.) kept getting better. We talked about it once, and he was like “Yeah, I knew it would get better. It’s the trust thing.” Like trusting people you sleep with was normal. Like it was OK, and it had happened before. It was one of those moments where I thought the normal thing he said was hilarious. And I couldn’t laugh, because then he’d know that I was a rusted out robot.

Anyway, so I’m feeling feelings. Every day. They are unwelcome, over-whelming and intense. Usually this is where I come up with a deviant scheme to punish the person who made me feel feelings. However, I don’t seem to want to do that. So, I’m just trying to be normal. Which means selling in my sexy new clothes (Thanks Savvy Plus!). Hopefully tonight, when I’m out at bars, there will be some poor, unsuspecting assholes that I can assault with my wit. That usually makes me feel better.

Tonight, I think that there will be boobs.

Also, I have a feeling there will probably be a lot of aggressive flirting. I think I’m almost ready to start hate-fucking again. It’s a little embarrassing, because my primary post-break-up advice for the last few years has been to start hate-fucking as soon as you possibly can. Because no-one should pay for the mistakes your last lover made, except your next lover. But I’ve been reluctant to take myself up on it. Although, it’s only been a few weeks. Maybe I just needed to ease into the hate-fucking. Maybe I shouldn’t judge myself for needing to be sad before I get mad. And into embarrassingly angry sexual situations.

I just posted this on my etsy site! I hope you like it!

So, I warmed up today for selling by posting some new cards on my etsy site. And some new pictures of me selling, and my customers looking on Facebook. And I’m letting you know Internets, I’m planning on hitting up Meridian Gold Dust, Circa 33, North 45, and Muu-Muu’s. So, if you want some Snarky Cards, from a cranky bitch, who would like to make-out with you/make you pay for her last break-up tonight, you’re in luck!

Love,

Alisa

About two months ago, I started seeing someone. And it ended badly. I didn’t want to write about it until I figured out what it was. Actually, I didn’t want to write about it until it was over, which it is. Usually, this kind of thing is easy for me to shake off. Usually when something ends for me, it’s because I end it. But this time has been different. This time I fell in love, and let somebody in, and I’m having a hard time dealing with the fact that he’s gone.

For the last years, a month was the maximum I was able to keep anything going. So this felt long. It always seemed to me that that was because I’m a hard person to love. I figured I’m a hard person to fall in love with too. And I was gracious and kind to the men who have left me. “It wasn’t their fault. I’m difficult.” I thought to myself. But, it’s starting to be clear to me that maybe my problem is not an inherent difficulty with my personality, but more an inability to trust men in general. As Magnum (yup, we’re calling him Magnum for obvious reasons) and I got to know each other better, I started thinking more and more about all the ways in which I’ve kept men at bay for the last ten years.

He told me a story about someone he once knew. Said that she’d had her heart broken in Junior High, and it never healed right. And I think I froze for a minute. “that’s me.” I thought. “Don’t nod your head.” I warned myself. “you don’t want him to recognize you in the story.” It didn’t quite happen like that. I trusted my first boyfriend, Carlos. And by the time we broke up for good, I didn’t trust anyone.

It wasn’t Carlos’s fault. In that 3.5 years, all of the adults in my life had hurt me. But it happened on his watch. I entrusted him with my heart, and he let other people tear it up. It was hard to realize that I was never going to be rescued by a man. This was my plan. It was actually, probably, more like my mother’s plan. Sherri loves abdicating responsibility for herself to God, to her husband, to me. And I think in my mind, we had some sort of silent bargain. I would take care of her. And then I would find a man to take care of me.

By the time I was 17, Carlos had jumped ship. And I think by then, I’d been so thoroughly abandoned and abused, the thought of trusting someone seemed absurd. My sister had relationships, my friends had relationships, and that was OK for them. But I knew a secret. Men hurt you. And so there was no point in trying to get close to them. That’s when I started my Mission of Sluttiness. And in the years since then, I’ve kept men at bay with sex, and my weight, and my personality.

I think in all of my relationships since then, I’ve walked the line between completely abdicating my responsibility for my own care (because we all try to become our mothers eventually), to defending my privacy, and my decisions constantly and angrily. I’ve walked away a lot. I’ve found men I didn’t respect, or trust to tryst with. So that it wouldn’t matter if I was broken. And I’ve found some really strong women to get my back.

So hanging out with Magnum was daunting. I tried really hard to accept him, flaws and all. And to be kind to him. And to listen to myself. Magnum’s a nice person. And he wasn’t intimidated by me. Nor was he intimidated by the fact that I seem to still be kinda fucked up. He didn’t wanna talk me through everything, but he looked at my flaws squarely, and he still seemed to like me. Which I think is the reason that I let him in so far.

At some point, in the middle of our newfound like, I had to go back home to my family, to see my niece. While I was there, I confronted my parents about their abuse. And I told them that they had caused me enough real damage, that I couldn’t see getting close to them again. It was a good move for me. But it took an emotional toll. And then something hard happened to Magnum too. And our thing, whatever it was, couldn’t withstand the weight of our respective grief.

So, for the last couple of weeks, I’ve been really sad. It’s harder because it’s not anybody’s fault. It’s scarier because I trusted a guy, and I got hurt, but I don’t think it was a mistake. Usually, this is when I pull out the rulebook, and I make some rules about how and why I should have known he wasn’t trustworthy, or why I’m just completely unlovable. But he was trustworthy. . And I am trying to just accept that I’m worth loving, and it was nice that someone tried.

All of this, the fact that I had this affair, the fact that I’m sad it’s over, is really over-whelming. I couldn’t piece it together until yesterday. My friend, Alicia Horton came up from Salem for the day. And we were completely devoted to girl time. Alicia and I weave our recent history in with our past, gossiping about things that happened 16 years ago, and things that happened last year in the same breath. At some point, after I had cried a little bit, and she had told me stories about her own ill-begotten affairs (pre-Weldon, her husband, who I love), I muttered “It’s like he took a sledge-hammer to the wall. And I don’t know who I am anymore.” Alicia nodded and said “Yeah, but now other people can get in.” And just like that I thought, “OK, maybe I don’t need the wall the way it was. Maybe I can build a door in there, so I can let someone inside if he seems like he wouldn’t fuck anything up in there.” After that, we went to Savvy plus, and tried on clothes, and I found a new pair of jeans, and some slutty tops for selling Snarky Cards in bars. And we kept gossiping and shopping, and laughing. And by the time she went home, I was closer to OK.

I know it’s just a broken heart. And those heal. It’s not even an interesting story. I loved someone, and they cared about me too, and it didn’t work. I hear those all the time, when I’m slingin’ Snarky Cards. In fact, I’ve made a living exploiting this story for my own personal gain.

I just never thought I’d be in the story. I enjoyed being the slutty girl who didn’t have relationships. I think I’m just as upset about losing the old, slutty, detached me as I am about losing Magnum. I miss my armor. I’ve enjoyed being above attachment. But it looks like I’m changing into someone else.

Savvy Plus: Sexy Clothes on the cheap, for the curvy girl!

Usually, I comfort myself after a bad boy-incident with some sex with strangers. But I think right now, I’m too sad and sensitive to pick anybody up. And I don’t seem to have any friends with benefits around anymore. So, filling my Vagina with penis-comfort seems to be out. But shopping with Alicia really made me feel better. Savvy Plus (on Hawthorne) had some really good stuff, and their prices were really good. So even an Art Prostitute can afford the occasional retail therapy. I think I’m gonna start dying my hair a lot again. And I’ve been playing a lot with eye make-up. So, it looks like I’ll be turning to girly-shit to get my through my broken heart, and help me figure out who I am next. I anticipate Sex in The City marathons. And probably some dancing.

Sexy People looking at Snarky Cards!

In the meantime, I’m trying to thrust myself into work. I’ve posted some new Snarky Cards, and I’m going selling a lot more than I have in the last couple of months. I’m trying to take more pictures of people laughing, while they look at my cards. I’m trying to document the things I like about my life, so that when I’m overwhelmed by my feelings, I have tangible proof that I am still doing a good job. However, my phone (awesome piece of technology that it is) doesn’t have a flash. So, I take pictures in the dark, and then lighten them in Picasa. Which means that a lot of my pictures look like they were taken in the 70′s. Or, possibly underwater. I kind of like the effect, but I’m sentimental. Thanks for listening to my tale of woe, Internets, and hopefully I’ll see ya in the bars sometime.

Love,

Alisa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snarky Underwear, coming soon to an internet near you!

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

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

Sincerely,

Alisa

My 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