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

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

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

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

And who wouldn't take me home? I touch myself in public. A lot.

On the third day of my period, every month, I go out and get myself some. I know, my Vagina seems like a constant party, and you assumed I’ve been filling it more regularly than that, but the truth is, the rest of the month I work hard, and I flirt, but I go home by myself. I’m waiting for a relationship, I tell myself. And my friends. And my Snatch.

But the thing is, it’s been so long since I had a relationship, I don’t know how to go about getting into one anymore. For all I know, I’m cock-blocking myself at every turn. It could be years before I find a hot guy who doesn’t have anger issues, knows what kind of emotions he has when he has them, and wants to fuck the shit out of me. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting one. And so, I make my sexual choices a little more selectively than I have in the past. That’s why you haven’t read as many tails of rampant sluttery as you  might expect from an Art Prostitute.

Besides, boys don’t impress me as easily as they used to. But by day 3 of The Bloodbath, I am a cat in heat, and it doesn’t take much to impress me at all. I find boys I’d usually dismiss charming, and delicious. I can’t stop myself. The next morning I wake up triumphant and proud of my ability to score. It takes hours for me to start cursing my insane libido, and my seeming inability to find a nice boy who could take care of this and other sexual needs on a more regular basis.

I never tell boys that they are falling victim to my charms because of biological need. I should, I know, give them some sort of warning label to read. But my Vaginal needs come before anything else at that point.

Regardless, I think we all know that period blood, as well as being a great inspiration for bad sexual decisions, is also a great lubricant. And there is nothing hotter than seeing a guy pull away from you with your dead-baby blood smeared all down his happy trail.

So, I made this card for you to give to your guy. Congratulate him on his fortitude, give him his props for sticking it to ya, even when the sticking got sticky.

And in the meantime, I’ll try to wrap my head around the idea of finding something regular to put into my whoo-haa. So that I don’t have to keep conniving my way into strange beds every month.

Sincerely,

Alisa Starr

They want to find a serial killer near you!

Dear Internets,

Last night I was up until 8am painting Snarky Cards. I love painting for hours and hours. But that meant that I watched 6 hours of Criminal Minds in a row (I only ever paint with television. Life is harder without television). And I realized something. All of the serial killers are within my dating age range. Some of them are my age.

So, in all probability, I’m going to sleep with a serial killer someday. If I haven’t already. I hope I already have. I have a ten year ceiling on my dating range. I’ll break the rule, if you’re a hot 41 year old, but for the most part, I just say no to dudes older than 40. But, when I’m, say 35, I’ll definitely be dating guys up to 45. And if I date a serial killer then,  he’ll be totally past killing prostitutes, and moving into killing regular people.

And I don’t want to get serial killed. But I especially don’t want to get serial killed by someone I’ve slept with. That would be, like, way worse than getting serial killed by a stranger. Because then I would have to blame my death on my Vagina. And my Mom would be right about me.

Love,

Alisa

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