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

As some of you may know, I am friends with Fenbi: The Best Band On Earth. Mike, the front-man from the group, has a regular job. Or, you know, a career as a marketing god. Bill Carter is one of his projects. He’s been talking about Bill for a long time, and I listened to him talk, because I’m a good friend, but I always thought of Bill as an abstract. Not a real person, but a project.

And I’m a busy girl. I don’t do a lot of things that are not working. But I’ve been trying to change that, since it’s come to my attention that not hanging out with my friends might increase my depression. So, when Mike sent out the last call to all of his people saying “Bill Carter is speaking tonight, I know you wanna come! And it’s free!” I said. Well, I said “I don’t know, I have to go out selling tonight, Mike.”

Hot and deep, who could ask for anything more?

But 7pm came rolling around, and I was tired, and hungry and I wanted to hang out with Mike. An idea that wouldn’t have occurred to me if he hadn’t woken me up at the ungodly hour of 10am. So, I called him and asked if he wanted to go to dinner. And he said “Um, hello? I’m about to start my show? Bill Carter, remember?” So, I gave up and went to see this guy speak.

I was late. I’m always late, but I got there. A cute guy wandering the halls had to let me in. “You’re Mike’s friend?” he asked. I smiled and nodded, shyly. Bill, turned out to the be the cute guy, who was wandering the halls because they were showing a clip of his film, Miss Sarajevo, and he has a hard time watching it. Because it was filmed in the war-zone of Sarajevo, when he lived there. And it sucked. And it was awesome. And sometimes it gives him the shakes to think about it.

I missed the film clip entirely. But I spent the next two hours listening to Bill recount the war he became involved in. Before I went to hear Bill talk, I knew a few things about Bosnia. My friend, Marin, who I used to drink with in high school, was from Croatia. He was hilarious. And intense, and he liked to start shit. Eventually, I believe, he fucked my sister on a beach. And once he showed me pictures of the Croation beaches. While Bill talked, I realized that Marin showed up at school in 1994. He must have been fleeing his country just as the war started. He never talked about it. But then again, he was busy drinking and chasing my sister.

In 1999 Kosovo was raging. As an angry 19 year old girl, I wanted to go help Kosovo. I didn’t know what I would have done. I probably hoped to do something dangerous. But, in truth, I would have been happy to change bandages and offer comfort. It seemed like horrible acts were being committed against people who had done nothing. At 19, that felt a lot like my life. And I wanted to stick up for the people who were being hurt. Like I tried to stick up for me. Someone’s mother talked me out of it. My parents would have probably liked a martyr as a daughter (as dead daughters are easier to love than live ones), but this women was sure that putting myself in danger was a bad idea. She didn’t seem to like me very much, but she seemed very sure I shouldn’t sacrifice my safety in order to help others. Her ardency countered mine.

And so I filled out a form online, but didn’t pursue it further, more because I was intrigued with this brand of motherhood she had presented. In her world, my mother would be hurt if I got killed in a war zone. I liked the idea of a mother who cared about me like that. Even if she was a fictional mother, that this Australian woman had made up, the thought of that kind of parent was enough to stop me from hitch-hiking my way through Europe in an effort to help keep people safe in a war zone.

Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I’d be if I’d gone to Kosovo.  I like to think I’d be a lot like Bill.

As I watched him talk, I realized that Mike is right. Bill is a genius. A hot ball of energy, who loves really hard, and swears well, and tells the truth, intensely who has no problem saying “I don’t know” rather than bullshitting. Watching him was breath-taking. In some ways, he reminded me of me.

This book is beautiful and important. And it has some really hot sex in it.

I bought Miss Sarajevo, his documentary about Sarajevo and Fools Rush In, his book. Reading Fools Rush In was like being submerged in a beautiful, scary, drunken world. I alternately devoured and savored it. I wouldn’t let myself read it unless I was on the bus, going to or from work. I wouldn’t open it at home, because I knew if I did I would just sit. Until I’d finished the whole thing. (Snarky Cards don’t make themselves, I can’t afford to sit around finishing books when I could be painting or typing). When I read it, I gave every sentence some serious thought, delighting in the fact that I had become so consumed by it, my own life seemed like a dim memory.

By the time I’d finished it, I was in love with Bill Carter. I pined for him. He’s so heartbroken and grief-stricken through-out the whole story, I was so glad that we’d met, because I spent a good amount of time, worrying that he wouldn’t find love again. When I’d find myself in the middle of this worry, I would remind myself. “You met Bill. He’s happily married. His wife is good at Scrabble. Chill, Alisa.” Bill is one of those people who believes in magic, and love tethers him to his life.

I’m not one of those people. My work tethers me to my life. And love, more often than not, seems like too much to hope for. I admire people who can fall hopelessly and deeply in love. And while I was reading his book, I got to fall in love like that too. It was exhilarating. The idea of loving like that terrifies me. I have a hard time trusting men enough to let them get that close. And even if I trust them, I have a hard time trusting me. That kind of thing has been coming up more and more lately. I think my childhood has been haunting me. It usually does, around my birthday, but this year has been worse. Some of the shit that happened to me when I was a little girl made me think I wasn’t loveable. Some of it made me think that I was a bad person. And my wires got crossed. So, most of my adult life, I’ve been trying to change the penchant I have for men who hurt me. It’s been hard, because I was raised to believe that all men would like to hurt me. And there’s really nothing I can do about it. So differentiating between bad men and good men isn’t easy.

I think a lot of this shit has gotten stirred up because I started talking to my parents again. Well, that’s not accurate; I have been talking to them for the last year or so. But in the last few months, they have created some crazy-ass plans, and suddenly, we’re not just having stilted conversation every other month. They are moving to Turkey because a demon told them that he and his legion were preparing for their final battle here on earth. He told them this as they were casting him out of a person. They wanted me and my sister to help them empty, organize and then sell their house. The house where I grew up. The house where all of the abuse I experienced in my childhood took place. A house I had hoped to never enter again.

“So, I heard a demon told you to go to Turkey?” I asked my mother on the phone. “Of course not!” she laughed. “Good, because I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be getting reliable information if you are getting it from a minion of Satan.” I really was relieved. And in this moment before she explained I was so happy. My parents aren’t crazy. They’re nice to me. My childhood was a bad dream. These are different people.

“No, we hold a high court, with God, after we cast the demon out. And we ask God how long the demon has been in our lives. He told us to go to Turkey.” She assured me. “Well. God’s a much more reliable source than Satan. So, I guess that sounds less insane.” I was cavalier, as she giggled uncertainly. And in that moment, I became a little unhinged. My parents are still the insane, abusive people who raised me. They have changed, they have made some progress. They have said that they were sorry about what they did to me (with some prompting). But they are still religious zealots, committed to their own, unnerving brand of religiosity. They’re the same people who have been kicked out of at least one church for their weird beliefs. They are still the people who hurt me.

Mary Chapin-Carpenter said “We’ve all got two lives, one we’re given and the other one we make”. In my most clear moments, I understand that all of that is in the past. That they are part of the life I was given. And I am now firmly planted into the life I made. But, since my parents pronounced their insane plan, I’ve been slipping in and out of time. Losing the confidence I’ve earned. Becoming the little girl who was afraid of her father’s rage. Or the teen-ager who’d been told I’d be raped every day by my mother, because of what I wore.

Bill’s book was a mirror of how I’ve been feeling. He weaved his past lives together, shifting between an abusive childhood, the act of falling in love, and living on chocolate baby-food in a warehouse, without heat, power or water in the middle of a siege.

His shitty childhood comforted me. I mean, he didn’t have it much easier than I did. And yet, he still dives right into love.

I saved Miss Sarajevo for when I’d finished Fools Rush In. I was nervous. If it made Bill nervous, how was it going to make me feel? I’ve been trying to be careful, the last couple of weeks as my childhood keeps flitting through my mind my emotions have been veering out of my control. And I need to be happy in order to sell things. I need to be calm. Or at least, I need to not want to cry all the time. So, if I deemed something emotionally draining, or if I thought that watching/doing/talking to someone would make me feel bad, I steered clear. But his book was beautiful. And so I steeled myself for a good cry, and turned it on.

The movie, it turns out, is a visual guide to the book. I’m glad I waited to see it, because I was watching it thinking “Oh, this is Vlad after he goes a little crazy because all of his friends are killed. This is the satellite link-up Bill did when he was really depressed. This is the gorgeous little girl singing Ace of Base in a broken down VW.” The idea that most intrigued me, from the book, is the Miss Sarajevo beauty contest that Sarajevo held, in the middle of the war. I’m not one for beauty pageants, but somehow, knowing that the people who attended this one had to run past snipers shooting at them, to attend, made it sweet. And important. The sign that they held “Please don’t let them kill us.” is poignant. And it means that this pageant wasn’t just for the people of the city. It was also a message to the world. “We still exist. We need your help. We are trying to live.”

And somehow, when faced with the senseless violence that befell an entire city for years; my problems seem smaller. And with that perspective, I try to balance my inability to trust men and my fears that I am too broken by the past, against the success of my cards, and the fame I’ve garnered for my tits and my tongue. When I pit them against each other, they come out a wash. And I’m grateful to Bill, for lending me courage, and telling me his story, and making me fall for him a little bit.

So, seriously dude, you should probably read his shit.

Love,

Alisa

Can you honestly imagine me playing hard to get? Because I can't.

When I was 19, The Rules came out. The Rules were written by two skinny Anne-Coulter-esque women. You know, the kind of chicks who think that they’re hotter than shit because they can wear a pencil skirt and have long hair? Anyway, these bitches wrote The Rules, a book which proclaimed that the only way to “capture” Mr. Right is to be unavailable, and make him chase you. On a Rules first date, you’re not allowed to stay for longer than ten minutes. Whether you have something else to do or not, you have to look at your watch and say “Oh! I have to go!” and jump up and run away after ten minutes. After said date and for the rest of the relationship, you’re not allowed to return his first phone call. You have to wait until his third, or fourth. Or something. Apparently, the recipe for success is a combination of being unavailable, and maintaining mystique.

The book that insults us all.

As we all know, I am super-aggressive; sexually and in every other way. And I couldn’t maintain mystique to save my life. So, I fucking hated this bullshit. Probably because they created a program I have no hope of following, and then called any woman who didn’t follow their program lonely and stupid. But that’s not all of it.  It pissed me off that this philosophy is based on the idea that men need to be manipulated into love. Because for all of the slutting around I do, I like men. I respect men. And I’ve spent the better part of the last 17 years trying to work through all of my shit so that I can figure out how to have healthy relationships with them. The idea that I need to manipulate one into loving me means that I’m not lovable all by myself, and I can’t trust a man to make his own decisions about his feelings. All of which sucks.

The Rules Bitches: Arch-nemesis's of everything awesome

About two years after their books hit really big, both of those bitches found themselves divorced. Which gave me some satisfaction. I don’t usually delight in the misfortunes of other people. But I considered these women the Arch-Nemesis’s of everything awesome. And so, their divorces fed my desire to see them sad. Unfortunately, these divorces didn’t stop them from continuing to offer dating advice. They are continuing to wage their war against honest dating, even now. Their website is stocked with pictures of them smiling next to real celebrities. There’s even a quote from Oprah, saying that they are genius’s.

I understand their popularity. I think everyone wants to create some order out of the chaos of our lives. Especially when it comes to dating. Everyone has lines they won’t cross. I have name rules. Like the other night, I met a Ryan. Isn’t it weird how all Ryan’s are hot? And while he was charismatic, I knew he was Hell-bent on his own destruction. As well as the destruction of anyone else who said that they liked him. So, even though he had Dylan-hair, and was trying to throw some (pretty good) game at me, I passed, because it doesn’t matter how good a Ryan is in bed, the mind-fuck you’re getting afterward makes the whole thing feel like a bad sexual decision.

After I’ve met 3 different people with the same name, I can make general observations about the name. My name rules have helped guide me through my life.  I try to believe in exceptions to the rules. They exist. I’ve just never met them. Michael’s always try to fuck with my head. David’s kinda hate themselves. Kaytea’s are always a crazy-ass party, that you will never regret attending. But you should rest-up first. Emily’s are steadfast friends. And Becky’s are bitches. Rebecca’s are usually nice, thoughtful and sensitive. Steve’s are good friends, who will always listen, and seldomly put out.

As much as I depend on my name rules, they’re subjective. They’re based on my experience with people who have those names. The Bexter (note, she goes by Rebecca, not Becky, because she knows Becky’s are bitches too, and has therefore never let anyone call her that)  has had different experiences with different names. So, she is open to dating a David, or a Justin (although, she’s dated a lot of Justin’s she might be done with that particular name). So, basically, while I love my name rules, and they are the guiding light of my life, I can’t pass them along for public consumption, except as a party trick.

Recently, I was updating the list of people I’ve slept with. I’ve got 83 people on the list… And I feel like I’m missing some people. So, if we’ve slept together, could you please email me, so that I can double check and make sure I’ve alredy counted you? Please don’t email if we only made-out. You dont’ count. Wait. Unless we made-out and it was good, and you’d like to make the list. In which case, please email me, and I will consider your request. You can send your sexual requests (and tales of our dalliances together) to snarkycardsatgmaildotcom.

I have noticed lately, that I have a collected a lot of wisdom, from all these different boys, and situations I’ve found myself in. I give great dating advice. Which I can’t figure out how to follow myself (much like the evil bitches I despise). But my observations have helped my friends (and strangers I meet at the bar) navigate through their own dating debacles.

So I’ve decided to put together my own list. The Rules by The Snarky Card Chick! I will feed them to you in the form of cards, until we have enough for a book of our own. And then we can give America a choice, The Rules for girls who like men (by Alisa Starr) or The Rules for girls who like to manipulate men(by some heinous bitches).  Rule #13 is the first rule I ‘ve written so far. I wrote it for my friend, Tina. Who is a cougar. Which is kind of exciting, and it makes me very, very proud.

It’s a good rule, I think. But it’s not going to be part of the top ten. I don’t know how long the list will be yet. I’m just writing down things as they happen to me. Or as they happen to my friends. If you have suggestions, I’d love to hear them!

Love,

Alisa

In 1996 I took Rebecca to the Prom. Don't we look hot?

About a year ago, I was in San Francisco, hanging out with my ex-fake-husband, Steve, and The Bexter. The three of us were watching Steve’s car get washed, because old friends can do boring shit together and it’ll still turn out fun. I was showing off my newest Snarky Cards, and Steve was intermittently laughing and nodding, and The Bexter was wrinkling her nose. After the car was almost all the way through the magical machine, I got annoyed. “You don’t like my cards?” I demanded. “Well, they’re mean.” She said. “I can’t believe people actually give them to each other. I would never seriously give one of those to someone else.” I was astounded, and a little pissed off. Steve stayed out of it, trying to make neutral comments for the rest of the afternoon. We bickered about it for over an hour, and since then it’s been a (small) point of contention between The Bexter and I. And, that’s OK. We’ve been friends for 16 years, we can argue one point for a year or two, until one of us gives in. And look! The Bexter gave in! She just sent me this story for your perusal.

Isn't she gorgeous? I love that my friends are so hot.

So I met this dude on the internet, like you do, because it’s 2009. During the course of our email bantering, this young suitor mentioned that he liked to drink a fair amount, and also that his bicycle had been stolen. When the time came for us to meet in person, a flash of inspiration struck! I took the snarky card off my bulletin board that said “Dear___, I’m sorry I stole your bike. You were drunk. And I had to get away from you.” It was perfect! I wrote in our names and tucked it into my purse. When I met him at the bar, I told him I had a first date present for him, but warned him “You are either going to think this is funny, and think I am the most hilarious chick ever, or else you aren’t going to think it’s funny, in which case it will be awkward.”

Here's the magical bike card that got The Bexter some dating!

Then I handed him the card. He thought it was funny, and we have been dating every since. Thanks Alisa Starr, for making my awkward internet date a little more bearable!

True story.

Lv. RSN

Isn’t that awesome? I made something rad happen in her Vagina. And I can make something rad happen in yours too!

People always wanna know where I get my sense of humor from, which is a stupid question from my perspective. How do I fucking know? I mean, really? But I think I might have an answer.

I love my brother, Stephanie. He’s not transgendered. That’s just what we call him. He likes it better than Becky, which was his other option. Anyway, it’s his birthday this month. And so I was calling to tell him Happy Birthday! Because I knew I’d forget on the actual day, because in reality, I’m a pretty shitty sister. And also, I wanted to get his address to send him his birthday present. Which is actually just some junk he left at my house when he lived here (See? I told you I’m shitty). We were catching up and he said “Guess what? I got laid last week!” I was flabberghasted. Stephanie doesn’t have a lot of game. He’s pretty sure of himself in bed, I know, because he brags about his cunnilingus skills CONSTANTLY. But he doesn’t always clue into the moment where the girl is actually interested in getting it on. I swear, I’ve watched him walk away from more pussy because he was oblivious than I’ve seen him buy comic books. And The Kidd loves comic books.

Anyway so I was like “Cool. How was it?” “Awesome!” He said using his cocky voice. “Oh yeah? You kids gonna Do It again?” I really want Stephanie to get a girlfriend. I would be sooooooo happy if he found a kick-ass girl. I ask this question with the hopefulness of a Mother. Unfortunately, his love life is as lame as mine. (Maybe it was our childhood?) “I don’t think so.” He said. “I like her a lot. But she just got out of a relationship. And she hasn’t been with a guy in a long-” “Oh, so it was break-up sex?” I interrupted. “Well, yeah. I mean, it was, like four hours long though.” He said. “Oh” I cooed. “It was so nice of you to have Lesbian sex with her!”

“What?!” He thundered. “You had sex for four hours. Straight people don’t do that.” I pointed out. “Lesbians do that. God, gay men don’t even do that. Four hour sex is a lesbian thing. It was so nice of you to have sex with her all Lesbionic so that she would feel comfortable!”

Stephanie has a reputation for being a Lesbian. This is in part because lesbians are his happy place. If you asked him whether he’d rather hang out in a room full of Bull-Dykes or hang out in a room full of hot girls who want to sleep with him, he’d think for a really long time and then he’d ask you plaintively “Can’t I do both? I mean, hang out with The Bull Dykes first and then hit up the hot girl room?” The other reason he has a reputation for being a Lesbian is that he is reassured by chocolate, Buffy and calls himself a feminist. All of which are good qualities. But that doesn’t stop any of his sisters from calling him a pussy. Which he is kind of tired of. So he retaliated.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that we had Lesbian sex. Except when you count all the times I put my penis in her vagina!” He sneered. I continued arguing my point. And he said “My penis in her vagina!” five more times. Finally, the imagery won out. “All right. All right. You win!” I finally spat out. “You totally grossed me out. Are you happy now?” “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am” He was smug. Because he had won. Because that’s what the conversation had turned into. He was trying to tell me about his sex life. Bonus if it grossed me out. I have been doing this same thing to him for the last twelve years.

This is for Stephanie! The best brother a girl could hope for!

After we hung up, laughing, I thought about it. Maybe my sense of humor is genetic. Maybe that’s where it comes from. Or maybe it’s fucked up, and I gave it to my little brother too. And now he uses it as a weapon against me. In honor of my beloved brother, I give you: The After School Special. Because, really, he does make my life an after school special. Because being his sister is like a constant, annoying lesson about how great it is to have a brother. And how to use sex as a weapon to disgust people.

For those of you who don’t know, I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them at bars, from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They’ll crack you the fuck up. If you wanna put some romance back in your pants, I might have the solution: I’m going to be at Hip Happening tomorrow! It’ll be open from 11-6pm at The Sellwood Masonic Lodge. I’ll have blank cards and my typewriter, so I can type up whatever creepy message will make your Valentines Day lucky. I’ll also have my old stand-by’s, so if you just want a “Fuck you and your fucking feelings” than I’ll have some on-hand.

Also: bonus, we’ll be inside a Masonic Lodge!

Who knows what they do there? It’s a mysterious club that I’ll never get into; maybe we can gather clues as to what they do in their mysterious club while we’re there! We’ll be like Encyclopedia Brown! Or Trixie Beldon! It’ll be awesome!

Everything began the Sunday after Thanksgiving. My boyfriend DJ’s sister Christina was visiting from San Francisco. It was the first time I had met her, and I was hoping to make a good impression. All was going well, until…

We were coming home after a trip to Hippo Hardware, chatting, laughing, discussing, and looking at the beautiful crescent moon suspended over the Portland twilight. Then, in that split second that my mind was not at the wheel, I ran a red light and was plowed into by a car coming from my right. I looked over at DJ in the passenger seat and was horrified to see his life flashing before our eyes. The next thing I knew, we were on the sidewalk, smashed up against the corner of a building. I didn’t understand. I tried to drive away. It didn’t work. My car started making horrible noises. I tried putting it in park. DJ moved my confused hands away and took the key out of the ignition. I just sat there. In shock. For a long time. Maybe an hour. I don’t really know. People were yelling and moving here and there. Information was needed. Somehow DJ and Christina took care of it all. They made the angry, angry man in the other car go away. They talked to the nice police officer. They called my family and my insurance company.

The police officer drove us the mile back to my house. I had an anxiety attack in the back seat of the cop car. All of the lights and sounds of the road were too much. I went into the house, into my room, into the corner and sobbed for a while. Then I hid in my bed and refused to speak to anyone. Finally DJ came in and took my hands in his and said goodbye. My parents tried to talk to me without much success, so they decided they had better take me home with them. I somehow managed to pack a bag and follow my mother out to her car. More flashing lights and noises and hyperventilating. After some club soda, several Advil, and a cold wash cloth to the forehead, I began to feel more like myself.

The next day, reality began to sink in. The accident was not a nightmare– it was my own awful reality. I had caused it, and I could not take it back. My car was gone. DJ and Christina had seen me at my very worst. I imagined them thinking horrific things about me: that I was crazy, reckless, psychotic, or at worst, homicidal! I feared that I would never hear from DJ again. My irrational anxiety was calmed when DJ and Christina showed up at my parent’s house that morning with hugs and a potted pomegranate plant.

Although I had been forgiven by DJ and Christina, I had not forgiven myself. I needed to make some kind of gesture to show how mortified and sorry I was for what I had done. I wanted to send Christina a thank you/I’m sorry package and I wanted to let DJ know how much I appreciated his help and support.

My mother and I went out to run some errands, one of which was a trip to Hawthorne Cutlery. While my mother tried to get her cuticle scissors sharpened I wandered around the store looking at various knives, swords, and knickknacks. A stack of familiar looking cards sat on the front counter. I recognized them from a visit to Music Millennium– they were the hilarious cards proclaiming brutally honest messages. After a few laughs and gags I stopped. I had found one that worked.

It was true and sweet and just what I wanted to say–

“Dear DJ,

I don’t care if we’re scrubbing toilets or making out on the couch. I dig the whole package and want to hang with you.

Sincerely, Annie.”

Perfect. It was so perfect that the store owner wouldn’t let me pay for the card. After hearing my story he said that I was meant to have that card, and that it was too sweet to sell with the rest of the raunchy stack.

I slipped the card into my purse, and later into an oversized envelope. When DJ received it in his mailbox a couple days later he assumed that I had made it, because it just seemed like something I would say. Perfect.

I thought the story would end there.

A few days later I was walking down Belmont with some friends. We noticed that Koipod was having a holiday craft fair and decided to check it out. The first thing I saw upon entering was a huge stack of snarky cards! The second thing I saw was a lovely lady sitting behind the stack of snarky cards! I couldn’t believe it– she was real! There was a living, breathing person behind the cards that, in my mind, had taken on a life of their own. I awkwardly went up to her and asked if she was indeed the creator of the cards.

We talked about how great the cards are, about my recent acquisition of DJ’s card, and about the accident. I thanked Alisa, the card creator, perhaps too many times, for bringing me so much amusement and joy. I told her that my next step was to send something to Christina. We came up with a personalized message that I would later send with a pound of Stumptown coffee: “

Aren't they a cute couple? Aren't you happy that Snarky Cards saved the day?

Dear Christina,

I’m sorry I tried to kill you and your brother. I really like you and I hope I can still join your family.

Sincerely, Annie.

The card was so perfect that Christina’s roommate posted it on the refrigerator, where he can obsess over it and wonder where on earth he can get his own snarky cards. (Don’t worry, I let him know about Etsy.)

So thank you Alisa, card creator, for helping me cope with and manage a painful and socially awkward situation with grace, dignity, and a lot of laughter. I wish you well in your snarky card business, and I will remain

They're a pretty adorable couple too, huh?

your loyal customer.

Sincerely,
Annie

P.S. DJ and I are still together, enjoying the snow and the holiday season. I am including a picture of us from Halloween, and a picture of me with DJ’s dog, John Crichton.