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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Angela Lansbury can be very comforting.

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

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

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

Love,

Alisa

My brother, Stephenie, the novelist.

My sister, Joy, the artist

I guess I don’t talk about tarot cards that much, so I get why she’d be surprised. All of the kids in my family read cards with amazing accuracy. My brother also writes novels, and my sister makes jewelry, and paints and draws, and makes clothes. I’ve always wondered if it was an artistic thing. And then I don’t know, so I give up and spend a few minutes pitying my parents, who wanted us all to go to college and get real jobs, and have careers with clear trajectories. And then I get distracted thinking about my brother’s short stories, and I worry about finding him a publisher. And then I worry about finding me a publisher. And I forget to figure out if reading Tarot with accuracy is connected to creative ability.

My first cat’s name was Tarot, because even though he was completely feral, he looked like he knew how to be loved, and love me back. I got him from a crazy-cat lady in California. She’d found him in a garbage can. He was six months old, and he’d never lived inside. It took me a year until he let me pet him, and even then, I had to corner him in the bathroom, and use thick gloves my sister gave me to pick him him, and put him on my lap, while he yowled. I prayed he didn’t scratch my eyes out, while I pet him over an over again, saying fiercly “Someday you’ll like this!’

I was pretty feral when I got him, I’d just estranged myself from my family, and I was 22, living in my hometown, all of my friends had gone away to college, and I didn’t know how to make new ones. I was working 90 hours a week, and I wasn’t sure if my life was going to be worth fighting for. Taming Tarot was one of the few things that gave my life direction and trying to show him love injected compassion into my angst-ridden existence. And slowly, as he started to look to me for love, so did I. I got some therapy, and started coffee-shop slutting around again, and he started letting me cuddle with him at night.  And all the while, I read my own cards over and over again, for guidence.

This is a picture of my third costume change of the evening, at one of our blow-out Fun House parties

The thing is, my cards always told my future. And it scared me a little. And one day, four years later, I was at college -I’d gone back to school to get my tiny Sociology degree- and I got the New Location card. Which always means I’m going to move. I called my Fake Husband, who I lived with at The Fun House and told him. “You don’t have to move just because the cards say you do!” he blustered. “No. You don’t understand, I don’t want to move, but the card came up, and when it does something outside of my control is going to happen, and so I’m going to.” I was sad. And a little frustrated. I liked our ginormous house of awesome. But Steve and I always seemed to be arguing this was just one more thing. He’s still kinda Christian in his thinking. And things like Tarot cards are spooky and a little wrong. “Well, just because your cards say it doesn’t mean you have to do it.” He hung up quickly. I glared at the phone. Unbenknownst to both of us, Crazy Dennis, our Speed-Freak landlord was  breaking into the Fun House at that very moment, so he could leave an eviction notice in my bedroom on the back of an envelope. I found it when I got home from school. “What do you think about Tarot now?”  “I just try not to think about it.”He replied uncomfortably. And I thought “Well, if Steve can ignore the fact that Tarot’s real, than I can too.” So, I put my cards away, and I moved to Portland. Tarot died when we moved here, he’d gotten into a fight and some other cats sharp parts had knicked his lungs. The vet said if I’d had a million dollars, I might not have been able to save him. And I was so sad, I couldn’t say the word for a long, long time. I ran out and got two kittens to replace him three days after he died. They were cuddly and cute and open and loving and so opposite him, I put the cards and the cat away in my mind and I haven’t thought much about either since.

But the last six months have been hard on me. I love my life. But it’s become unpredictible and extreme. And every day something huge happens, and I have to figure out how to deal with it. Some of it is good stuff (which I will reveal to you, dear internet, when it’s all finalized. I don’t want to get your hopes up and then dash them) and some of it is bad stuff. And it’s gotten to the point that I’ve realized that The Universe was right when it decided to give me Tarot Cards.

I had always thought the ability to see my own future was a consolation prize for giving me such a shitty childhood, abusive parents and a stubborn nature. But now that I’ve had some therapy, and my abusive childhood is no longer the defining thing in my life. I mean, I still think about it sometimes, but it not longer hurts my feelings that those things happened to me. And I’ve started to accept my stubborn nature, and give it some begrudging props. I wouldn’t have gotten this far with my Snarky Cards if I hadn’t been so sure that this was the best way to make myself a writer. I’ve wanted to be a professional writer since I was 6. I made a promise to myself that I would one day be a writer. Which is why I’ve worked my ass off, 90 hours a week for two and a half years, hungry half the time, promising myself it would get better if I could just stand being poor and scared and tired and hungry for another year. Stringing myself along, ignoring kind-hearted people who told me over and over again to get a real job and work on my dreams part-time. “Like a normal responsible person”. Because I’m stubborn. And I said I would finish this. And I said it would make me a writer. And I don’t have a goddamn book published yet.

Lately I’ve begun to think that rather than being a consolation prize for a hard life, my Tarot Cards tell my future because my life is so weird, and totally unpredictible, and I need some advance warning about what’s coming up so that I can get ready. And The Universe knows that, and so it gives me a heads up out of consideration. And, maybe the advance warning of what’s going to happen next will allow me some mediocum of security in a world where I depend on Strangers in Bars to pay my rent. Or, as I did last night at Kelly’s Olympian and Meridian Gold Dust, the electric bill and phone bill. -Thank you Strangers in Bars! Todays electricity is brought to me from you! And also: Cute-Boy-Rich: Please stop intonating that we’re going to make-out and then disappearing. You are a cunt tease. Nobody likes a cunt-tease. Next time I see you, you better be cornering me in a bathroom and trying to grope me.

So, tomorrow night Fenbi’s playing a show again. FINALLY! They’ve asked me to read Tarot for anybody and everybody. I will be doing that for $5 a reading at the Ash Street Saloon from 8pm until close-to-closing. A word of warning though: When Fenbi plays, you need to shut-up and dance. That’s what I’ll be doing.  So -before and after the cute boys entertain us with deliciously dancable music-you can get your present, and possibly your future read for $5. I’ll bring some Snarky Cards too, so anyone who wants to peruse through those can.

I’m off now, to try and make some sort of gypsy costume, so that I’ll look like a vagrant fortune-teller. I hope to see you tomorrow night!

Matt, The Delectible

It didn’t last long though, when I got inside, I saw Matt, the most delectible of all of the Kelly’s Bartenders (as you can see!). “I got one of your cards!” He exclaimed, which in and of iteself is odd, because I bribe bartenders with my cards. Everytime I go into a bar and sell my Snarky Cards, every bartender gets a card. It keeps things friendly, as bribing generally does. So, if you’re a bartender, you’ll never have to pay for your Snarky Card Habit. And you’ll probably supply all of your friends with their Snarky Cards.

The Bike Murder Card: It Can Save Friendship!

“What happened?” I was atwitter. He grinned. “I loaned my friend, my bike. He just went around the block, but somehow he ended up getting a flat tire…?” He looked confused. And seriously, how does someone get a flat going around the block anyway?

“The next day he came back and gave me the ‘I’m sorry I murdered your bike’ card!” Matt was stoked. I grinned. “I’m so glad that you got one of my cards back! That’s awesome!” I left Kelly’s feeling triumphant and wanted.

My first Mother's Day Card!

Afterwards, I made my rounds, and met Bret, another cute boy who was excited about meeting me. “Ohmygod! I love your cards!” He squealed like a pre-teen at a Jonas Brothers Show. “A while ago, I went to get my knives sharpened at Hawthorne Cutlery and there were these cards at the counter. The first one I saw was Fuck you and your fucking feelings! It was so perfect!” I tried for a demure smile. “I’m so glad you like them!” His eyes lit up. “It was perfect! I put it up on my fridge. I’d just broken up with my ex-girlfriend, and it made me totally chill about the break-up!”

Hawthorne Cutlery: Bringing you sharp things!

Other people have told me Hawthorne Cutlery stories. It’s a knife and sword shop, so in and of itself, it makes an impression. But it’s also weird that they carry my cards. They don’t fit in with the rest of the store, so they make an impression. The owner, Dave, has a sick sense of humor too (or that’s what he always tells me, anyway. I don’t think my sense of humor is sick, but he seems to like saying that a lot)  and makes his own (dirty) cards and t-shirts on the side. He’s a fun guy to talk to. He always has a crazy story in his pocket.

So, tonight I heard stories about how relevant I am. And it made me feel good. It was just the little uplift I needed after those shitty voicemails that boy I used to date left on my machine yesterday. Thanks, universe, for giving me gorgeous boys, and making them say nice things to me.

Last week I went out selling at the glorious Kelly’s Olympian, and then, the Matador. On the bus on the way downtown, a blind guy got on. I told him that there was a seat next to me, and he sat down and then I stared at him. It couldn’t be, could it? I mean, how many Hot Blind Guys are there in Portland? Who ride the bus? This guy is gorgeous in my favorite way, He looks like a 90′s pop-star. He’s thin, and in his mid-twenties, and a snappy dresser. He’s got soft looking light brown hair, which falls into his face in that cute 90′s thatch that I just can’t get enough of (think Kirk Cameron without the annoying voice or Christianity).

I leaned over to him, and I said “This is gonna sound weird, but I think we were on the bus together a few weeks ago. My friend Lauren and I were making really loud back-door jokes. Do you remember that?” He smiled and nodded. “Yeah! I do!” I leaned back a little, proud that I’d been memorable. “Well, just so you know, after we got off the bus, Lauren and I had, like, a ten minute arguement about whether or not The Hot Blind Guy laughed at my jokes or hers. It occurs to me that you probably don’t know how hot you are, now that I’m thinking about it. So, I thought I’d tell you.” He smiled. His name is Jim. He gave me his email address, and I gave him a Snarky Card. There was something really intimate about handing him the card, and then describing it. “There’s a sailboat on the back, and a chick with really big boobs on the front.” I started. The guy across the aisle from me said “Yeah, and the chick on the front has triple D boobs.” I thought it was hilarious that this random bus-stranger wanted to make sure Jim knew he had some triple D’s in his hand. I’d handed him the Make-out Card, and he giggled “It really says ‘Maybe, if you go down?’” He asked. I nodded. Until I realized that was pointless. “Yup,” I giggled happily with him.

We all know someone who has lived in one. There's no shame in it. Just fuckin' move out before you start getting old. Because after a while, that shit is not cute.

It was a dreamy begining to a night that felt right. It was the tail-end of Marti Gras. So the bars were full of amateurs. Most of whom hadn’t seen my cards. The economy is still hitting hard, so I didn’t make as much money as I wanted, and I’m starting to worry a little about rent, but this week is devoted to me going out to the bars and selling my ass off. Whether or not were in a bad economy, people in bars still wanna laugh. Hopefully, I can make that happen, and make rent too. As a tribute to Portland Drunks everywhere, I give you: The Filthy Punk Rock House!

Battlestar Galactica: Sexy Robots Doing It With Sexy People

Friday night I went to the Battlestar Galactica showing at The Baghdad Theater, with my Snarky Cards in tow. It was packed. And it was fun. Cort and Fatboy -the radio guys who threw this gig together- announced a couple of things before the show started, and at the end of these anouncement, Fatboy said “So say we all!” and everyone in the theater yelled “So say we all!” simultaneously. Just like on the show. I’ve never been part of spontaneous group-yelling before. Unless you count Christian Camp when I was a kid. Which, you know, kinda sucked. Some deep part of me tingled at how awesome it was. I beleive the word is nerd-gasm.

I sat next to two people, a guy and a girl -friends, no benefits. The girl had never seen my cards before and wanted one for a girl she is hopelessly throwing herself at. The boy said “You haven’t seen her cards before? Seriously? She’s a Portland Icon!”

I was stoked. I’ve never been iconic before, and he told me about the last time we met, what cards he bought from me, and what he did with them. No-one likes commercials, but Friday night’s Battlestar Galactica episode was brought to us by Viagra. As that anouncement was made, the theater went wild. Nerds like their sex (why do you think there’s so much invisible-robot-sex in the first season?) and the fact that Viagra had deemed us Dorks market-worthy soothed us. I was kind of itching to sell to the hoardes of Geeks, but at the same time, I felt so comfortable talking to my seatmates about what has happened before, and what might happen next, as the robots and the people have sex and get married and try to make life, not war. Which will be hard, because the robots keep nuking all the planets where the people want to live, but I digress.

Afterwards, I went to Kelly’s Olympian, as I was walking up, I saw Jake, one of the cute bartenders there. He and I hugged and I bummed a cigarrette from a stranger, walking around amongst the other smokers and showing off my cards.

A guy near the door half-turned and said “Hey! It’s the Snarky Card Chick!” A woman just walking out of Kelly’s looked at me and said “No shit?” I smiled. “Um, yeah!” Her eyes bulged out and she said “Seriously? You make the Snarky Cards?” I nodded and offered her a pile to look at. She kept staring at me, wide-eyed. “Ohmygod! My friends and I talk about you all the time! I live in Seattle, and my friends are not going to beleive that I met you! This is so awesome!”

She rummaged through her bag, and found some money, announcing that she had to have a card. Her name was Pam. The band that she and her friend Lindsey had traveled 145 miles to see play had just cancelled. “But now that I’ve met you, the trip was worth it!” She exclaimed. It’s weird to think that people consider meeting me a triumph, or money well-spent. But I’m glad that my cards made Pam so happy that she talks about them with her friends. And also: I really like it when people talk about me. Good or bad, I love it when people spend time thinking about me when I’m not there. What can I say? I’m a narcissist. I wrote down the directions to Voodoo Doughnuts for them (a real Portland Icon) and happily waltzed inside Kelly’s.

The Glorious Space Monkey Coffee!

Where I saw Tom, who owns Space Monkey Coffe. He carries my cards, and he was in really good spirits. His band had just played. It was nice to see him outside of a work context. We hugged a lot, and when one of my customers came up and asked “You know her?” Tom told the story of when I came into his shop with my wheelchair and my broken leg. My friend Alice, who had broken her leg the day before me was pushing me around in my wheelchair. She couldn’t quite walk yet, but she had volunteered to limp behind my wheelchair, pushing. It was one of those stories that made me realize, Tom and I are friends. We have weathered things together.

The whole night had a glow about it, like, The Universe was telling me “You’re still doing a good job. You’re Art is important to other people. This is still what I want you to do.” I made some money, I talked to some people who had never seen my cards and were blown away by them. I drank a delicious Mai-Tai and before I hailed a cab home, I bought myself some of the best Mexican Food that Portland has to offer, from the cart on 2nd and Ash.

Shitting on someone's Coffee Table: A new way of showing love and adulation in this terrible recession?

As a thank-you to The Universe, I give you “Sh-t On Your Coffee Table” for all of you out there, who like to shit on your friends stuff to show them your love, or your poor bowel control, or both simultaneously. I hope you like it!

Snarky Card Chick at The Chapman Swifts Show

In case you don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr and I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Post Cards. I sell them in bars, from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. Although, lately I’ve been home sick.

For the last few days I’ve been in the thrall of a dark, horifying cold.  My life has consisted of stuffing garlic down my throat and drinking cupfuls of Emergenc and Catnip tea in between naps. I also tried the wet sock trick, which I saw on OPB a week or so ago. It totally worked! The trick goes like this: You run a pair of socks under hot, hot water. Put the socks on. Put dry socks on over them. Go to sleep.

The theory is: your body wants to dry the socks. So, it’ll raise your temperature while you sleep, thereby clearing your sinuses, and helping you get better faster. It totally fucking worked. I woke up, every morning, groggy, with dry socks and a little less mucus plugging up the back of my throat.

So, tonight, I will be going out into the world to bring you new cards. There will be lots of drinking of orange juice! I’m sure I’ll be going to Kelly’s Olympian, and from there, I plan on going up to Muu-Muu’s and perhaps The (first) Matador.

In the meantime, here’s a birthday card to tide ya over:

Whether it was a drunken one night stand, or someone you've been sleeping with for a while, it's their birthday. And they had sex with you. Don't they deserve a card?