The relationship between you and your Mom is usually really complicated. I mean, serial killers and rapists usually have crazy Mom issues, right? So, it’s complicated. And if you get it wrong, it goes really wrong.

I am no different. My mother was a terrible, abusive person. She treated strangers with more kindness than she treated me. And she let other people abuse me. She told me I was unlovable. She’s never admitted to any of that fucked-upness. Or apologized for it. She was a bad mother. In a lot of ways, she’s still a bad mother to my brother and sister.

So, I had to find other mothers to rely on. I think, in my relationships with other women, I wanted nurturing. But being vulnerable in those relationships was hard. My mother needed me to take care of her. She tore me down, until I didn’t like myself anymore. And I felt that being myself was a betrayal. And then she demanded that I take care of her.

And I think, I’m learning as I get older, that I need to be taken care of too. And that I need to accept help. And nurturing. Even in my relationships with my mother-substitutes, I find myself assuming role of the therapist. In order to feel secure, I listen and I am supportive. And I’m strong. And even though I sought out those Fake-Mom’s, I was too afraid to use them. Because even though I knew I needed another Mother, to fill in the gaps that my mother had left; I believed her. I was sure that at the core of me, I was unlovable, and ugly and mean and a bad person. Just like she said. Undoing the damage she did has been my adult life’s work. And it’s been hard. And the kindness that I experienced from other people’s mothers always seemed so bright. I couldn’t have that much kindness in my life all the time. It was like looking at the sun. So I stole moments of kindness from other people’s mothers, and stored it away, and re-lived it in my mind, trying to figure out what it meant about me. trying to figure out what these tiny kindnesses were giving me.  Because I think in the back of my mind, I had this cruel mother. And I believed that I deserved her. That I was greedy to want someone to love me unconditionally.  Or love me at all.

Most of my trust issues come out of my relationship with her. My self-doubt, and a lot of my fear of intimacy. For a decade I didn’t speak to either of my parents. And I used the time to reclaim my Holidays. Mother’s Day became about me. Since I raised myself, and then I fixed myself after my mother had done her damage, I used Mothers Day to buy myself presents. Jewelry, flowers and movies. But eventually that fell away. Eventually I stopped being angry at what my mother had taken from me and I realized that more than loving her and more than hating her, I wanted to just not care about her at all. And I did. I stopped craving a different history. And I stopped wanting her to get over her shit and be on my side. It worked. I reached a plateau of happiness. And I just tried to pretend that I’d always been that happy.

The first two years of Snarky Cards, I ignored Mother’s Day. I forgot about it until the last minute, I didn’t know what to say. I felt like my broken, fucked-up relationship with my mother disqualified me from writing about it. I felt like nobody would like what I had to say. It took me a little while to realize that the Snarky Card niche is saying shit no-one else will. And writing what I really wanted to say to my mother became cathartic. And everytime someone laughed at it, or related to it, I felt less alone. And more powerful. It made me feel better about who I am. And my fucked-up childhood. To write my experience. And offer it to the world.

I hope that whatever relationship you have with your Mother, you find a card that helps you feel like your experience is normal. Because no matter how nice or how fucked up your Mom is, you’re a good person. And there are thousands of people who have the same kind of nice/normal/kind/loving/tortured/abusive/scary/crazy/mean relationship with their Moms.

We’ve all got Moms. And no matter what kind you ended up with, I promise you’re not alone. So, if you have a fucked up Mom, reclaim Mothers Day. Make it a day to celebrate YOU. Tell a friend some fucked up shit your Mom did. Buy yourself something nice. Tell yourself you’re a good person, even if your Mom wasn’t. And if you have a good Mom, share her with a friend. You know you’re lucky. Listen to someone who isn’t. Because you have a lifetime of good Mom memories. You can ease someone else’s fucked up memories. You have room in your life for that kind of kindness.

I hope whatever you do for Mother’s Day that you feel good about yourself. And you should. Because you’re worthwhile.

Love,

Alisa

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

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

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

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. Recently, I was in Seattle and I loved it. I’m planning on moving there at the end of September. Until then, I’ll keep haunting the Portland bars that I’ve grown to love.

The lovely girls of Twilight

The end of my trip to Seattle was sweet. I typed my Snarky Cards at Twilight: an Art Collective in West Seattle that’s been selling my cards for the last two years. I love the girls who own the place. And I’m proud that they’re my friends. And I’m glad to be part of their wonderful boutique. While I was in Seattle, I made some really great paintings for this show. I’m really excited about them. I think they’re the best ones I’ve ever done. They’re all $100 each. And they’ll be hanging on the walls at Twilight for the next month.

$100 Now for sale at Twilight Artist Collective!

Usually, when I’m typing my cards at a show, that’s my whole world. I’m watching people laugh at my cards, and making them new shit I think that they’ll like. I am typing as fast as I can, to show off, and get the stock out. But this time, I got to watch people looking at my paintings. It was awesome. My shit was hung at the far wall. So, they’d wander, peering at the other artists work. A little intent, trying to decide what they thought. And when they got to the Snarky Paintings they had this bored/concentrating look on their face. And I got to watch their expressions change, first they smiled a little at the bright colors, and then, as they read them, they would break out into a grin. I’ve been watching people have reactions to my cards for so long, it never occurred to me that watching someone like my other shit could be more rewarding. But it was. I felt like a real Artist.

Afterwards, we went out for a real celebration and we laughed our way through dinner and drinks and I remembered what it was like to hang out with a posse of ladies. It was delicious. And I felt loved. I floated my way through selling for the rest of the night.

My sister

Joy and I got along fabulously. I think we’ve always been on the same team. But we didn’t realize it. Growing up in an abusive household meant that we didn’t know how to be nice to each other. It didn’t help that Sherri used to pit us against each other. I was smart and ugly. Joy was dumb and pretty. And we used to curry favor with her by talking shit on each other. It took us  years of being careful with each other. Holding our tongues. Trying not to judge each other. And last month it paid off. We tried to be nice; it wasn’t easy for her to let me take over her apartment with my paint-a-thon. And it wasn’t easy for me to do anything. I was so distraught when I got there that I couldn’t really talk. She made a special effort to be kind. And I made a

Joy's delicious bitches: Yuriko, Jenny and Marissi

special effort to tell her what I needed, and how I felt. And by the time I left, I knew we were a team again. More than that, I loved her friends. They folded me into their group seamlessly, like I wasn’t a hot, broken mess. They just walked right past my nervous breakdown, and got out the make-up and costumes, and started a giggly gossip girl party, and between their kindness and their ability to have fun  no matter what, I climbed out of my pit of self-pity and despair, and right into their fun. I knew that when I move there, I’ll have friends. And the person who knows me best will be happy to help to tell me to get my shit together; whatever I need most.

Quartz lying in Joy's bed

I was on my way to pick up a book for my rideshare home and i passed a guy selling random shit on the street. I picked up 2 Faye Kellerman’s and 2 mannequin heads for $8. The mannequin faces were dirty, like they’d been fighting. I quickly stuffed everything

Quartz lying in Joy's bed with a mannequin head

but them in my backpack so I could stroll down the street, holding one in each hand by their hair. Happily pretending they were the heads of people I’d killed. When I got to my sister’s house, I put one on her kitchen table and hid the other one in her bed, cackling the whole time.

It was a beautiful end to a great trip. Now, I’m haunting the bars of Portland, scaring up rent money. And money for my move. Hopefully I’ll see you out there, somewhere.

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

Here are some cute girls laughing at my newest selections last weekend!

Dear Internets,

For those of you who don’t know, my name is Alisa Starr. I make Snarky Cards. I sell them from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. I also have them in 35 different stores, mostly in the Northwest, but I have a few satellite stores in San Francisco, Louisville, Seattle and New York. I love my stores. So, I’m making a concerted effort to give them their props from now on.

So, I’m writing to tell you that Emerald Petals has gotten a new stash of Snarky Cards! Last week on my way home from therapy (yes, Alisa’s brain has gotten a little spazztastic lately. So, I’m back on the couch). I dropped off a new batch of Snarky Cards at Emerald Petals on Mississippi.

Hilary's pretty hot, right? And look at her picking out new Snarky Cards!

Emerald Petals is an eclectic mix of gardening shop and flower shop. Hilary, who owns the joint is sweet and knowledgeable. And she also looks pretty hot in her shop apron.

Sexy Succulents available at Emerald Petals!

They have a lot of cacti in right now. My Grandma was a sucker for succulents. She had two greenhouses full of them. And looking around Emerald Petals, I remember that I didn’t even realize that Grandma’s “plant room” was actually the nicest bathroom in the house. They had 7 people living in that tiny house, and she had the balls to make sure nobody used that third bathroom. Because it was for plants.

Grams love of these prickly pants confounded me as a child. First, they required dirt, which I thought was gross. And they are part of nature. Which I was pretty sure is always trying to kills us, due to some traumatic family camping trips. And she could spend hours watering them, and doing other mysterious things with them, I didn’t know about (I’m assuming there was trimming) because I wasn’t allowed to go into the greenhouses. Because I was a kid, and I could totally fuck some shit up, if left unsupervised. And the greenhouses were her sacred space. All of which I kinda resented. In case you can’t tell.

It's a pretty sweet shop to browse through, right?

So, looking around Emerald Petals, having smelled the fresh tulips, I tried to make my peace with the cacti. And I realized that all those plants required the work of love. Which is something I think I’m only grasping as an adult. Love means coming over to fix a friend’s couch, or taking her out for drinks so that she can talk about her broken heart. Love is Kay helping me take my first shower after I broke my leg. And Grams worked hard at loving those plants. Two greenhouses kept her busy. In the frame of all things dirty and sweet smelling,  I finally started to get gardening a little bit. It’s the work of love. I like to think my relationship with Grams got a little better, because I stopped by the shop. She’s dead now. So, our relationship doesn’t grow as much as it did when she was around. And I try to treasure the little movements towards understanding her better.

So, if you’re in Mississippi, and you want to get some fresh Tulips, or some beautiful cacti, or some of the newest, raddest Snarky Cards, stop by and say hi to Hilary, and get your hands a little dirty. You might not make-up with your dead Grandma, but I know you’ll feel better afterwards.

Love,

Alisa