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. They will crack you the fuck up.

I know it’s been a long time since I’ve written to you. This summer has kind of been hard on me. After I decided that I ABSOLUTELY HAVE TO get out of Portland, I started spazzing out about it. It’s been about 6 years since I moved. And since then, I’ve stopped driving, or owning a car. Which would be fine, if I was moving across town. But I’m moving 173 miles away.

These are my gay cats: Chester and Tigger. They cuddle because they're in love.

And it’s not just me, it’s me, my two gay cats, Chester and Tigger, and Snarky Cards. I spent all summer trying to figure out what to do with the business I have here, while I move up there. So, I thought, and I thought and I thought, and I made a plan and a back-up plan, and a back-up to the back-up plan.

And all the while, my newest room-mate was making me crazy. She didn’t have her own towel (or her own soap…?), she ate all my food, she didn’t wash the towels she used, or pay me back for the food she ate. I started squirreling things away in my room, because everything I left in the living room would just disappear. Her kitten, while adorable, would pull things out of the trash and drag them all over the house. Shitty Roomie didn’t take the trash out, although, to be fair, she didn’t put trash in the trash can either. She just left the whole cycle up to me, she (or her kitten) would leave shit on the floor, I would pick it up, put it in the trash can, and then take the trash out. This cycle of feeding, and cleaning up after Shitty Roomie soaked up a lot of my extra-energy. Leaving me with a lot of plans that I couldn’t get started on. Leaving me feeling even more terrified that I can’t pull this move off.

See? Doesn't he look like he's being tickled by my wit? This is how it usually goes down.

While that was going down at home, I was starting to notice that I was no longer having a good time selling in the bars of Portland. I started fights with people. I was cranky. I got tired of people saying “I don’t want to buy any more of your cards, but I never want you to stop doing it! I support you!” I swear to God, that’s a direct quote. And, I’d hear that shit a few times a night. It is some condescending bullshit. Once pronounced, the customer saying this shit to me, would beam, waiting for my gratitude. “I appreciate you and that’s so much more important than money.” some of them would add proudly.

Moral support generally requires some actual action. In order to claim that they are morally supporting me, my friends have to bring me chocolate, whiskey, weed or Murder She Wrote when I’m in the dark place; read my rough drafts, listen to me bitch, cry, yell and just generally give a shit about me. That is moral support.

These people were not doing any of these things. They liked me as a back-drop. They liked that I’m part of the Portland scenery, they like saying that they’ve met me. But they have no desire to support me as an artist. They would never use Snarky Cards, because they’re not the kind of people who say what they mean to the people around them. And, um, they bought some cards from me two years ago? So, like, they don’t need to buy any more.

Look at my tits. Who could not want what I've got? It's astounding!

And the longer I sold my cards, in bars, this summer, the more pissed I got at this dynamic, this conversation that I kept having with Portland. And finally, around August, I got it. I was sick of Portland, and Portland is sick of me.

So, I spent a month moping. Because I wanted to be the rejector. I wanted my friends, this town, my businesses to be alarmed at my impending move. I wanted people to yell “Oh my god! How will I live without you?” and, while a few people did that, they were all kidding. Magnum (my ex-boyfriend) used to say “The thing about Portland, is it doesn’t give a shit about you. It doesn’t give a shit whether you live here or not. It doesn’t give a shit whether you make art or not. Portland just doesn’t care about you.” And this started running through my head. Every day. I moped and sulked, and alternately, tried to be super-fabulous, super-funny, super-sexy, in an effort to eek out some regret, or genuine feelings from people I’ve thought of as my friends for the last few years.

And, it kind of worked. I got a little bit of love, from my bartender friends. A few of my customers teared up. I realized that I will miss this tiny, tiny town a little bit. After I’d gotten all of the well-wishes, and we’ll-miss-you’s out of everyone that I was going to, I was done.

So, after I’d paid September rent, I took off for California, to bond with my niece, and make a bunch of money, and get my head right for the move.

California was a balm that I badly needed. I spent a week at KT’s house, bonding with her and her boyfriend and her cousin. I rested on Arlette’s couch. I discovered the awesome that is Oakland. I saw my niece, and my brother, and beautiful sister-in-law, Christina.

In fact, that was kind of a crazy-awesome highlight. They took me to The Mall. I love malls. My first job was at a mall. My first bookstore job was at a mall. And the freedom that those jobs gave me, the self-esteem that I got from being good at them, is still potent for me. I walk into a mall, and I remember discovering that I was good at work, I remember having crushes on the guys at the shoe store, I remember buying ones or fives from the chicks at Hot Dog On A Stick. All the stores employees were connected by our mutual drudgery, allowing you to find camaraderie with hundreds of people on any given day. Also: bonus, you could figure out if the guy at the shoe store was a player by asking around. But more importantly than all of that: working at the mall gave me a wedge to put between me and my fucked-up family, suddenly I had a reason I couldn’t go to church or birthday’s, or Hell, even Christmas.

And it was the first time I ever felt myself engrossed in work. It was the first time I ever lost track of time, because I was concentrating so hard on a task. It was the first time I was rewarded for being bossy. And it was where I learned I could sell things. When I worked at Brentano’s, my sister worked at Macy’s. And at Christmastime, we would work until midnight, closing down stores on opposite sides of the mall. After we were done, we’d take off our shoes, and light a cigarette, and walk triumphantly through the mall, claiming it all as our space with our trailing cigarrette smoke. The boys we’d picked up, at our respective jobs would hoot and holler around us as we decided what kinds of other debauchery to indulge in for the night.

Dance party with the baby!

Christina and Stephen didn’t take me to just any mall, they took me to THE MALL where all of these good feelings went down. It’s been rebuilt, since then. The Brentano’s I worked for has been gone for a few years now. The back hallways I used to hide in have been torn down. The food court is in a different place now, but I still remember that walk of triumph. I still remember all of those good feelings I had when I first walked into it. And being there with Kiddo, and his kiddo, and the gorgeous and sensible Christina, was kind of awesome. But, even better, Christina wanted to shop at Torrid, which is the sexy-clothes-for-big-girls store. So, I got to try on clothes, in my favorite store, with my favorite people. And when we got home, Christina and I had a margarita, and then we all had a dance party with the baby. It was magical. And fun. And sweet.

It’s hard for me to explain how awesome my niece is. I take it for granted that Stephen’s kid is going to be great. That was a gimme. But I think the things I am astounded by about Emi, are the part of her that are her mother, Christina. There are a lot of awesome things about my sister-in-law. She’s loyal. If you fuck with my brother, you fuck with her. And she likes to get even as well as mad. She likes to laugh. She is a girly-girl. She is hot as shit. You can depend on her to say the most reasonable thing in the room. And she’s kind. But she’s also guarded. She wants to know what kind of person you are before she lets you in. (This is something I really admire about her) So, it takes a while. But when Christina smiles, her whole face splits open with happy. And it’s child-like. I mean, if you had a good childhood. And it feels like a reward. My niece has that same beautiful giving-in-to-Joy smile. The first time I saw it, in the car, on the way to the mall, I started crying a little bit. It’s so big. And it’s so completely present. And Emilene’s smile makes me feel really, really grateful that Christina is in my life. So she can be part of my family. So I can be part of the family she’s making with Stephen. But most of all, I wanna figure out how to smile like these girls.

So, we laughed. And we made jokes, and we talked about our problems. I was super excited, to show

Stephen and his baby. Well, our baby.

Emilene the books I”d bought her. But she did not give a shit. I mean, she’s, like, 6 months old. So, I get that she’s got other stuff going on. Walking is more important that reading, right now. But Stephen squealed with delight when I pulled out Danny The Dinosaur, Morris Goes to School and Little Bear. Apparently, he’s been reading them over and over to our little girl ever since.

Stephen woke me up early the next day, with coffee and a regretful smile. He knows I don’t do mornings. We got in his car, so he could take me to the train station. “Are those kids….in high school?” I gestured to some kids crossing in front of the car. He nodded. “Actually those kids are going to our high school.” He replied. “You wanna see it?” I was so surprised that I could identity teenagers at a distance, it took me a minute to hear what he said. “You live down the street from our high school? Um, sure, I’d like to see it. I guess.” I was weirded out. Why do people stay in the same place their whole lives? As we passed the teenagers, I rolled down my window. “LOSERS!!!” I screamed out, as we passed them getting into a car. (Which, by the way, they were going to drive 3 blocks to our high school. Hello? Pollution? Recession? Obesity?)

I settled back into my seat, grinning. I’m 32 years old. I had had 3 hours of sleep. I’m sure I looked like shit. In fact, I’m sure I looked like a crazy, fat, old woman, yelling from a car. But it still made me feel awesome. Stephen looked at me with a mixture of fear and disbelief. “That chick was wearing tight jeans. I hated girls like her in high school.” I said defensively. I was lying. I didn’t really hate anyone in high school. It just felt good to taunt children.

The memory of that night with my family has carried me through the last two weeks I’ve been back in Portland. And tomorrow night, I’m going to go to Seattle, to see my friends, and sell my wares, and try to believe that soon I’ll be able to call that new city home. So, if you’re on Capital Hill, and you want some sassy, sexy, boobilicious fun, go to a bar, and wait for me there. Or email me. And let me know where you’ll be. I can totally meet you up. And save you from life without my boobs.

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

And so I explained how it’s been feeling like everything is starting to fall into place here. And I can’t leave just when it’s starting to get good. I cited the publishers that are sniffing around my book idea, and the impending t-shirts I’m going to make and sell with Brianna from Tender Loving Empire. And the cute boy who’s been flirting with me lately.

And all of those things are real. Sans the boy. Last night the flirtation I thought I was having came to a screeching halt when I tried to take him up on some of his intonations. And so I spent the better part of this morning moaning in hung-over shame. “Why? Why did you think he actually liked you?” I viciously whispered to myself as I stomped around my apartment. “You’re still in Portland. He’s cute. And he flirts with you constantly. Why did you think that you were going to get some make-out?” My cats looked a little frightened by the stomping, and then started making out. Again.

See how Tigger's about to plant his face in Chester's A-hole? Yeah, that's his happy place. He has a special sigh for when he hits it just right.

I don’t know what is going on in my life. Everything is opposite. My gay cats have started to have orgies, while they perch on top of me. The other night, Tigger sat delicately on top of my room-mate Patrick’s chest, and Chester ran over, and lovingly started to lick Tigger’s balls. Patrick noticed that they were doing it on top of him, but he’s gotten used to it, so he just kept watching tv. This gay-cat-sex thing has become a constant. They are no longer two separate cats. They are now just one long gay porn. And I’m surrounded by cunt-teases.

So, last night, I made an ass out of myself by assuming that a cute boy who has been flirting with me with increasing intensity wanted to make out with me. And today I feel bad. Not because I was rejected, but because I feel like for weeks, I’ve been sculpting this beautiful and amazing penis out of clay, and I was just getting the kiln all fired up, so that I could glaze it, to make it hardened, so that I could use said beautiful penis for future friends-with-benefits fun. Right? And last night, just as I was trying to put the penis in the kiln, some stupid Portland boy wrenched it out of my hand, and dropped it on the floor. And when I bent down to pick it up, it was all smooshed and flat, and it didn’t even look like a penis anymore. And I realized that I’d been trying to make a working dick out of shit. Not clay.

That’s how I feel.

Because rejection honestly doesn’t bother me. And if last night had been a simple rejection, I would have been fine. But as soon as I was like “You know how you tried to slip your hand in my bra earlier? Yeah, let’s do it on purpose this time”. This particularly beautiful boy came up with a string of reasons why that was a bad idea. And I found myself mired in bullshit excuses. When he probably meant “I like flirting with you, but you’re not really my type.” Or something. Who knows? But he couldn’t find the words to say it, and I was drunk and completely confused. Usually when boys stick their hands down your bra, you can milk that sort of situation for more action. But this is Portland. In this place, boys don’t have casual sexual encounters with women that they want to continue to be friends with. Boys here date. Because they’re sad. Not only are they sad, they have a lot of other feelings, that are hard to untangle. And sex just makes them feel more things. So they can’t have it unless they mean it…. and if they do try to have it casually, they cry. Seriously. That has happened to me more than three times since I’ve moved here.

I know this. I know all of this. But the flirting was so exciting. And so testosterone-y. And everything else seemed to be looking up. And so I got carried away, hoping and wishing that I was finally going to find a friend to fill my Vagina.

And like I said, things are going well in my life. They’re just not going well inside my Vagina.

Fortunately, there’s a solution to this kind of conundrum. It’s called a Vibrator. I haven’t had any fancy money for things like Vibrators for the last four years or so. So I’ve been rotating through the 6-7 old ones I have rattling around in the Happy Box. And since I’ve started my sad rotation, I’ve thrown a couple of vibrator funerals. I finally had to say good-bye to my first vibrator- a present my best friend Emily gave me when I moved in with the last man I had a serious relationship with. His name was Mark. And he was terrible in bed. It was a smart gift, Emily. You totally outdid yourself. And, not only that, it was classy how you put it into a box that held your checks, and gave it to me in front of my parents, and our friends. I don’t think a single person realized what you’d given me.

Ten years later, I haven’t had a relationship since, but I have had a really hard time getting rid of that vibrator. Even after the motor died. And I realized that it’s flesh tone looked a little… wrong.

So, I was delighted when It’s My Pleasure called me to ask if they could carry Snarky Cards! And even more delighted when I went into their store! I’ve been meaning to go to It’s My Pleasure since I moved to this town. It’s a sex-positive vibrator store. Portland’s answer to Good Vibrations, if you will. Which is rad, because I grew up thinking that Good Vibrations was the best standard with which to judge a Vibrator store. And when I got to Portland, I couldn’t find Good Vibrations. I could, however, find Fantaseyland. Which is not a sex-positive sex-toy store. It’s the kind of place where creepy guys jack-off in the back room, while you stare at the big-breasted women looking at you wickedly from the inside of the packages of vibrating fun.

It’s My Pleasure is found on Sandy and 63^rd ave, in a cute little white house. The porch creaks in a nice way, and there’s coffee and tea, waiting for you inside. A giant black cat, Lucifer, loiters on the porch, demanding attention from everyone who walks through the door. It’s the kind of place where you can find the tasteful Kama Sutra, and pretty butt-plugs. If you have a question, Brandy is happy to help you. But she’s just as happy to let you browse by your lonesome. Either way, you’re not going to avoid eye-contact with other customers, or worry about someone offering you $20 for a handjob, while you try to figure out if you want just Clitoral stimulation, or some G-spot action too. And now, they also have Snarky Cards!

While I was there, I shopped and I found a new Vibrator, to soothe my angry, lonely Vagina. It’s called Little Kiss. And after the first time I used it, I thought about starting a new religion dedicated to using Little Kiss. It’s that good. I think once you try it, you’ll join my new religion. It felt like gentle, tireless fingers, working their hardest to give me orgasms, over and over.

So, I’d like to dedicate my latest painting to the boys of Portland. It’s one of my most popular cards. My friend Kay wrote it. And I’ve always thought it was mean, because feelings are important. But I’m feeling it now!