Here's my broken leg, after the surgery!

Dear Internets,

I spent the first week after I broke my leg at Joy’s house. I had a lot of pain. I was worried about over-stepping. I was worried about exhausting her. I was embarrassed because of all the help I needed. I was hungry, and it was hard for me to get to the kitchen. I was dirty. I was poor. I had to move, and I wasn’t allowed to walk for another 6-8 weeks.

As my doctor explained it, I had blown out the back half of my left ankle. And they had to use screws, plates and wire to put all the tiny chips of bone back together. But it wasn’t just that. My good leg was now my bad leg.

They gave me an open cast, wrapping it in a few ace bandages. That way the foot wouldn't swell bigger than the cast.

My leg had been opened up, and the bones mended. It was in a cast. And the doctor told me under no circumstances was I to walk on it, or even rest it on the ground. He didn’t have to tell me that. After surgery your leg swells up if you lower it beneath your heart. I couldn’t lie flat in bed for more than ten minutes before the pain would start cascading down. I had to keep it elevated at all times.

As a cripple: once you realize you have to go to the bathroom, you lie in bed for 10 minutes, (because sitting up is too exhausting and painful, you will lie down for the first month after surgery) you’re gaging your pain, trying to figure out if you need to take a pain pill before you go, or if you should wait. How long will it take? Will the painkiller make you dizzier? Will it knock you out before you get back to bed? Eventually you decide.

Hopping from your bed to the bathroom takes concentration. You’re using a walker, and one leg, trying to keep your broken leg above the floor, looking out for things that may trip you. In the 5 minutes it takes for you to hop from your bed, to the bathroom, your leg has swollen painfully inside your cast. By the time you’re sitting on the toilet, it’s throbbing. So, it takes more concentration than normal to pee. And if you have to poo? Pushing sends blood flow downwards. So, a good shit will make your broken bone swell even more. The longer your pee takes, the harder it is to hop back to your bed, because your mind is kinda full of pain. But, you’ve been in bed for a while now. And so you always take a few extra minutes to enjoy the bathroom. Because it’s not your bed. And you miss not being in bed.

So the hop back is harder, and you have to concentrate, to make sure you don’t fall, or trip on something. If you have to sit down between the bathroom and the bedroom, your leg swells up even more. You may need the rest, because your unbroken leg is holding all of your weight, and the strain is making that half of your ass twitch in a scary way. But the longer you sit, the more it hurts too. You’re sweating and panting by the time you actually lay down again. Each bathroom trip means 2 hours of laying down, with your foot elevated above your head, in order to get the swelling down to a manageable level.

My beautiful sister, who bathed, fed and watered me back to health

Three bathroom trips a day were about all I could manage. I couldn’t get myself water, or make myself food. So before Joy left in the morning, she would put as much food next to me as she could. Like leaving a food dish next to the sleeping form of an old dog. So he didn’t have to walk across the room.

For the first few days, I cursed myself for not making more friends. I had just moved to Seattle, 3 months before. But I’d been visiting all summer, and before that, for years. Why hadn’t I made more friends? Why hadn’t I put more effort into relationships? I obsessed over being dependent on Joy. And she obsessed over it too.

My friend Carly, who checked on me, brought me video's and cheered me up relentlessly

But by the end of the first week, my fears had dissolved. I may not have made a lot of friends, but the friends I’d made were kind and went out of their way to help me. During the day, enough people would stop by, that I was fed and watered, and almost never bored. Sparkle Pussy, Joy’s boyfriend, Prince Eric, my friends Colin, Carly, Trevor, Timmy and Pia all chipped in to help me get through the day.

Seattle has given me the gift of friends who will hang out with me even when I’m crippled It’s like that Alanis Morisette song “That I would Be Good”.

This is how I felt about my fucking feelings most of the time.

Which is another aspect of this broken leg thing that’s kind of bullshit. I’m so fucking emotional. Between the pain and the painkillers, my complete vulnerability and having to ask people for stuff EVERY DAY. “Can you get me some water? Can you get my pants? Can you help me shower? Can you bring me some food?” And all of my new relationships were tested, and I was so fucking grateful when they came through. All of which left me scared, nervous, embarrassed, grateful, hopeful, sentimental, loving, and a little horrified at my condition, at the same time, all the time. Feeling all of those goddamn feelings has made me do insane things, like finding an Alanis Morisette song which completely describes my relationship. And then saying that. On the Internets. Where everyone can read it and laugh.

Added to all this was me and Joy. Living together. One of us completely dependent on the other. Like a lot of sisters we fight constantly. But even when we’re not fighting, even when we are laughing together, some silent tension keeps us at odds.

Our forced time together helped me untangle some of this. I realized that I wish she were an entirely different person. And she thinks that I do stupid things. The other person I wish she was used to exist. But it was 20 years ago. Back then I liked her, but I wished our lives were different, our parents less abusive, or at least richer, so we could be comforted with money when their damage got to be too much. So I’ve been trying to wish things different all along. Back then, Joy still thought I did stupid things.

I think that living in her house, utterly depending on her made me realize that while she has fundamentally changed since we were small, some of those changes are good. And after meeting my friends, and packing and moving all of my stuff, and making decisions with me for the last month, I think Joy has decided that not EVERYTHING I do is stupid.

I think, for the first time, we started to see ourselves in each other. She fed me, bathed me, started moving all of my stuff out of Homoasis, worked 40 hours a week at her job, spent time with her boyfriend and worked on her side projects (She organizes charity events in her spare time, for spare cash). After two weeks of all of that, she started to fall apart. But falling apart didn’t slow her down. It was the first time I’ve ever seen anyone besides me do that. I found it endearing. And alarming. Because while she charged full speed ahead, I knew she was crashing into a wall of her own limitations. Soon.

I hate medicine. And I have a deep and abiding fear of becoming addicted to opiates. This fear translates into amnesia. I forget about painkillers, because I never really consider them an option. I don’t have any Tylenol in my house because I never remember to take it. When my leg isn’t broken, if I’m in pain, then I ignore it. If the pain gets really bad, I slow down; taking longer and longer to accomplish tasks. Which annoys me. So, I call myself a pussy, and try to make myself speed up. Eventually, my body gives up, and there’s nothing my mind can do to get it going again. This usually results in me crying and yelling at myself. Eventually, I smoke a little weed, which calms me down enough to help me realize “Oh. I’m in pain. That’s why I’m going slow. I think I need to quit for now, and rest.” and then I go to sleep.

Did you notice how at NO POINT, I took any kind of medicine? Yeah. That’s literally my process. While my leg was broken, it went a little differently. Usually Joy or someone else was there by the time I’d get to crying. And they’d say “Take a pain pill, you idiot.” And then I would, and things would get better. For about 15 minutes, until I fell asleep. After a while she would say really annoying things like “Do you know how upset it makes me when you don’t take your pain medication?”

Apparently, Joy pulls that kind of shit too. On her own body. Which is kind of impressive, because she has Fibromyalga. So, it takes a little more than a “Don’t be a pussy” pep-talk to get her moving when she’s in pain. After a while I reminded her of herself so much that she called an old boyfriend. And apologized. “I’m taking care of Alisa. And she’s acting exactly like me. And I’m starting to realize how difficult I was.”

Luckily, when Joy broke, Carly and Trevor and I were all hanging out, talking shit about people we know. We all looked at each other, with wide worried eyes. She had tried to make a joke out of her chiropractor bill; not realizing that it wasn’t even remotely funny. Joy is as charismatic as I am. She can tell a joke. That was when I realized she’d hit the wall.

The lovely and fantastic Trevor, who took me into his home even when he didn't have to.

She left the room and I said “I’m literally breaking her!” Trevor nodded “Yes. We can’t let this continue. Why don’t you come stay with me at my house?” I was really surprised. Who invites a cripple to crash on their couch? It’s crazy. Trevor is a wonderful person, but we were casual friends. Not “I’ll help you shower when you are filthy, smelly and incapable of doing it alone.” or “I will feed you every meal you need, and let you watch tv all day, every day on my couch for as long as you need.” friends. Carly was nodding. “Yeah, I’ll drive you and your stuff over.” She agreed. I was stunned. And hopeful. And excited.

It was the break we needed, in order to survive. I was starting to freak out about Joy breaking down. And Joy was starting to break down. I didn’t even tell her until I needed to start packing, I didn’t think she (or I) would be able to take it if it fell through.

Trevor made me yummy food, and his dog and I fell in love. I slept. And watched awesome television. And took drugs. And had a steady stream of friends come over to keep me company.

Joy spent the next three days sleeping.

And then we started to get ready to move all of my shit, my cats and my crippled ass into a new place.

This is me, selling my Snarky Cards earlier this year, at the Wild Rose. God, I miss walking.

I’m trying to be as honest, while telling you this story, dear Internets, as I can. Which means it takes me a while to craft the story. In between saga’s, I’m trying to make new cards, and post them on my etsy shop. And call my stores, and pay my bills, but I still can’t walk. And I can’t go out and sell. Which I usually do to pay my bills.

Dress sexy! I've been crippled for 2 months. I am sex starved. I want your ass as my eye-candy!

So, this month I need help. My sister is throwing me a fund-raiser on March 30^th, from 8:30 pm at Waid’s on Capital Hill. The theme is doctors and nurses. Sex it up, and be ready to dance. Don’t have a costume? Come as patient. I want to see lots of awesome head wounds! Door prizes for best dressed and most creative costume (or costume posse)
Prizes include: Snarky cards, Snarky Paintings and Fuck You panties! The $10 door fee for the night goes to paying my medical and other bills. It will be a great dance party, and it’ll make a huge difference in my life if you can attend.

Snarky Cards! Which you can find on the website! Or at my fundraiser!

If you can’t, please look at my etsy site, and find something you need. I’ve been updating it like crazy, so there will be something that cracks you the fuck up. And the sales from my site are all I’ve got, besides the fund-raiser, to help feed and clothe me. You can send a paypal donation to snarky cards at gmail dot com.

Thanks for listening to my tale of woe. I hope that you are well,  and that your life is easy and kind.

Love, Alisa

Last month, on Seattle’s first night of snowfall, I found this snowman waiting for me at the bus stop as I was heading out to sell. I completely ignored this creepy, retarded, omen of danger. I sell Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards, in bars. From a box that hangs beneath my boobs. It was a slow night. The snow keeping most people indoors. Luckily, my friends at 22 doors were having their holiday party. We sang karoke until 2, (I sang The Rainbow Connection, since I practice it in my shower every day) then we all trekked to my friend Greta’s house.

On the way to Greta’s, I fell down 3 times. A few years ago, I fell of my bike, and broke my leg. So, falling freaks me out. But I kept getting up, and all of this successful falling left me feeling pretty awesome about my ability to walk. 6 hours later, I stumbled out of Greta’s. I was crossing the street, in front of her house, I stepped off the curb and my left foot swept out from under me. Black ice. I looked up at a woman passing by “Are you OK?” she asked. I smiled through the tears in my eyes. “I’m pretty sure my leg is broken. I need to go to the hospital.” I said. I handed her my phone. “Can you call someone? A taxi? An ambulance? I don’t know.” She called 911. And I tried to crawl out of the street, so that I wouldn’t get run over while I waited for the ambulance, and practiced not crying in public.

They're so pretty! Totally misrepresenting regular EMT's everywhere with their hotness.

The ambulance guys were kind and cute. “Yup!” they agreed with me “It’s broken!”. Not as hot as I’d expected. They were cute, but I’ve been watching a lot of Third Watch lately, and I kinda expected a Bobby Cannavale look alike, or, you know, Kim Raver.

They gave me something for the pain, and then strapped me down to the gurney and loaded me in the car. I hate that feeling. I hate being on a hospital bed that’s moving, and not having any control of where I’m going next. I mean,, the reason that you’re on the hospital bed is already scary. Whatever it is. And wherever they wheel you, scarier things are waiting for you in the next room. At least in my experience.

See? I can't do this shit from a wheelchair.

By the time the ambulance doors closed, I was totally freaking out. I couldn’t do anything about the gurney. So, my mind wandered to other things. Like how a broken leg completely fucks up my life. The Snarky Cards Chick Act doesn’t work in a wheelchair. “How am I going to make money? I make all of my money with these,” I moaned, gripping my tits. I peered down at them sadly, shaking them and muttering to myself.”Don’t worry, you’ve still got it going on,” He said as he took my pulse. “I’ve got a boner right now!” he reassured me. He let me feel his chubby as he kept taking my vital signs.  I checked. He did. This actually did comfort me for the rest of the ride. There was something reassuring about feeling a guy up in the back of a car. Even if that car was an ambulance.

After the cute boy with the chubby walked away, leaving me with the doctors, I let myself melt down a little bit. “Oh my god!” I gasped. “I can’t get into my house!” I had just moved, two weeks before, to a new house. Homoasis is a crumbling old craftsman, in the U District. Full of some lovely young gays. My room in the basement was small but I had just figured out how to fit all of my stuff into it. And I was starting to learn to live with the fact that all of the cats of the house liked to congregate in my room. All six of them. And I couldn’t close my door. So, I couldn’t keep them out.

Homoasis liked to keep my cage full of stuffed monkeys in the front hallway. And all of my room-mates played with them. Which I really liked. My monkeys have been neglected in the last few years.

But none of that really mattered because Homoasis has sixty-five narrow, crumbling steps of doom. Leading up to it. They’re hard enough to negotiate when I’m stone cold sober in the middle of a bright sunny day, but there was no way I was going to make it up with a broken leg. I’m pretty sure that a few of the people I explained it to didn’t believe me. Also: I have no insurance. And I’m poor. I mean, if I had money, I would have gotten insurance. Right? So, I guess that’s redundant. So, they sent me a social worker, who called my sister for me. And who reassured me that they wouldn’t let me go home until I had a safe place to go.

And so my sister came. Apparently she’d been awake all morning, with a psychic feeling. And she was annoyed that I didn’t call her in the first place. She should get credit, for her psychic feeling (which no-one ever notices when she tries to put it into the story) and for wanting to be my first call. I have a lot of people on my call list. Some of them would run me across the state, barefoot, strapped to their backs, with zombies chasing us. Those people are all in California.

my sister, Joy

So, her wanting to be my first call really touched me. And her look, that look of determination on her face, when she realized that my leg was broken soothed me. I’ve seen her calculate like that before, usually before she does something hard. And she always gets it done. Whatever it is, once she gives it that look.

See? Me smiling? That's mostly because of Joy, I knew I'd be OK. Way different than the last broken leg.

Last time I broke my leg, I was really scared. I sobbed in the E.R. for hours. I was sure that Snarky Cards was finished. And I would starve. And me, and my cats and my broken dreams would be homeless and destitute. And the nurses then, let me cry, and then they looked at me, unimpressed, and told me I'd be fine. I called 5 people to come get me. None of them came. I took a taxi home. And I waited for 3 days, terrified and in pain, until they were ready to do my surgery.

This time, I called my sister. And she came. And the hospital staff was kind to me, and my sister's boyfriend, Eric, who I love, also came. And my best friend Colin. And Sparkle Pussy, a friend of Joy's and mine. Joy called Arlette, Stephenie (our brother) and my Aunt Judi for me. They were all worried. And relieved that I have Joy. The doctors decided to do my surgery immediately. Joy said I could come home with her to recuperate.

So, I gave in. And let The Universe do what it does. And this time, this broken leg, instead of weeping, I just trusted that I'd be OK. And that something good would come from it. I told Judi that, after the surgery, while I was still groggy, and nervous, but trying to be brave. "Good." She sounded so sure. "Then you'll get the lessons." And relieved. Like my mind would be in good hands.

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

I just got off the phone with my brother, Stephenie. Who called to tell me that his girlfriend (the amazing and awesome Christina) wanted him to call me to tell me that she loves reading about my period-blood-sex-adventures.

Now available online!

I never expected those words to come out of my brother’s mouth. He must be seriously pussy-whipped if he’s making calls to talk about my bloody Vagina on behalf of his girlfriend. That’s like, above and beyond buying super-sized tampons at the store.

“We’re not like regular families are we?” I asked, taken a little aback. “Um, duh?” He responded. Then he called me an asshole. I guess he’s right. I did kinda start it. I mean, I was the one who spent his entire childhood trying to convince him he was gay -it almost worked, he was going on dates with boys and hanging out at the Billy Defrank Center when he was in high school. I remember trying to make him smoke and drive when he was 11. And I did kinda flaunt my sexual conquests for our entire lives.

I guess it’s just one more way in which my life is weird because I make my living off of my Vaginal adventures.

Love,

Alisa

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.