Their street names are Tres Perras Locas: 3 crazy bitches. Yuriko, Marisi, and Joy, my sister. Twin to Janis, the muppet to the left.

Janis, my sister's muppet twin

Dear Internets,

I seem to have seamlessly slipped into my new life. I’ve been volunteering at Twilight Artist Collective, and this week, Joy and I saw the Muppets movie together. We texted Stephenie, because he loves the muppets more than he loves chocolate. When we were deciding what time to go, I said “You know, I’ve always worried that I was Miss Piggy. And I’ve always worried that I wasn’t Miss Piggy.” Joy burst out laughing. “Shit! You are Miss Piggy!”

We got our seats in the theater, and Joy opened her bottle of Saki. I’m taking a break from drinking, so I just had one celebratory sip. When we were first starting our lives, Joy and I both had fake names. I went by Molly at work, because people told me that I looked just like Molly Ringwald. And Joy went by Janis, because she looked like the muppet, Janis. I’d told people at the bar that the night before and my friend Colin bent over laughing. “She does!” he said while gasping for air. “I didn’t want to saying anything before!” Joy and I pointed out scenes to each other in which our alter-egos had done a particularly good job. And we held hands while Kermit and Miss Piggy sang the Rainbow Connection.

Christmas Cards are now up on etsy! Get yours today!

And Thursday, I ran into my friend Colin at the bars, so I knocked off work early and went back to his house, to make jokes in his living room.

All these little moments, going to the movies with my sister, hanging out with my friends on the spur of the moment, were so painfully absent in my Portland life. I feel like I’m treating myself by letting myself indulge in them now. And they let me feel loved. They make me feel like I have a life, and I am more than just a Snarky Card machine, created and adored simply so that I can entertain and nudge people towards emotional honesty. I think that’s the root of why I started to feel so angry with Portland. As a town, it embraced my cards. It loved my creativity, and was astounded by my nerve, but very few people wanted to go to the movies with me, or hang out with me after the bar.

And next week I’m the starr of open mike night at 22 doors. One of my favorite bars.

You can buy this this Sunday at 22 doors on Capitol Hill!

I don’t exactly know what I’m going to be doing, or saying. But I’m pretty sure I’ll say a lot of funny things. About my Vagina. And I’ll probably be showing off my boobs. And I’ll be doing custom cards, with my typewriter, Bob. And I’ll have my paintings and my cards and my undies.

So, from 8 to 11 this Sunday night, I’ll be at 22 doors in Capitol Hill: 405 15th Ave E, Seattle, Wa. Come, laugh at my exploits, buy some cards, eat some yummy food, drink some booze and hit on some hotties. See ya then!

Love,

Alisa

I’m back in San Francisco! The land of awesome. I spent last night celebrating my friend Emily’s birthday, and then I went out selling. I hit up the Elbow Room, which was a bust. I sold a few cards, but it’s too dark to read in there, and nobody was really into my shit.

So, I headed over to Zeitgeist, one of the happiest places on earth. Where I sold a fuckton of cards. I missed the Bart back to Oakland, so I crashed with my friend Joe. Well, I actually crashed at his girlfriend’s studio. Julia and I, it turns out, have the same deep-seeded love for Lesbian folk rock, and 90′s Chick Rock. So we had a 2 hour sing-a-long to The Indigo Girls, Ani Difranco, Fiona Apple and Tori Amos. It was fucking awesome. This morning I woke up, still drunk, but very satisfied with my girlie-bonding night.

This card is inspired by my childhood! I hope you like it!

Now I’m headed down to San Jose to celebrate God’s passing me over for death. Passover is the only religious holiday I celebrate. I’m not Jewish, but I love the ceremony. I grew up in a Christian Fundamentalist household, so all the stories are familiar. But they don’t have the same interpretation in Judaism. My life as a Christian was hard. Christians tend to re-interpret God for each other over and over again. And the God I heard about was a jealous, controlling stalker who liked to punish me for my perceived wrongs, or sometimes for no reason at all. In short, the God I heard about in church as a kid was a total dick. And I do not wanna deal with him again. But the God of passover, the God I hear about at Seder is kind and funny, and you know he loves you because your friends make yummy food, and laugh and drink a lot of wine in his honor.

Tomorrow night I’m going to be going out, selling some more Snarky Cards in The Mission District. If you wanna meet up, and get some new snarky cards, drop me a note or send me a smoke signal, and I’ll be happy to meet up!

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

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I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up.

You can check out my cards, online, on my etsy site.

Lot’s of people look at my cards online. And I’m glad, they’re funny, I like that I’m entertaining the masses. But not a lot of people buy them online. I pay my bills selling Snarky Cards, and I have been eeking out a pretty good living at it, but paying my bills is always a close thing. Last month I went to San Francisco, but the few weeks before that, I stopped buying food, because it was hard to afford the ticket to go to SF and food at the same time.

Arlette The Awesome!

“That sucks.” My friend Arlette pointed out. “You should make it easier for people to support you.” I was frustrated. And tired. And hungry. “I’m doing everything I can. I work 12 hours a day. What else can I do?”My voice had that annoying whiny quality it takes on when I’d like to give up.

She sighed. “Hello? People look at your cards online all the time. You should ask them to donate, if they’re not going to buy.”

“I don’t have time to figure out how to install a donation button.” I was petulant. Arlette is a web-goddess and can do this sort of thing in about 5 minutes.  It took me a month of hints, requests, and a few more petulant sulky conversation, before she agreed to do it.  She is sometimes begrudging with her web-goddessry.

And despite the fact that I had to perform a little emotional blackmail to get her to install thing, it is still a magnificently nice thing that she did, in suggesting and then installing it. Right?

And so, I give you The Donation Button! To your right! No, up above that thing, no below that thing. Just between, ok, you’ve almost, oh, shit, no never-mind, It’s a big fucking button in the middle of the stuff to your right. And if you like reading my blog, or reading my cards, and you don’t wanna buy one, kick in a buck or two. It’ll keep me in food, and if I keep eating, I can keep entertaining you!

Now on http://snarkycards.etsy.com