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This is me, selling my shit in a bar! My tits look enormous because they are enormous

My name is Alisa Starr. I made Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. I also sell them online. And in stores. You can find them all over the place. They will crack you the fuck up.

I’ve turned a few of my bestselling cards into paintings for your pleasure. I hope you like them. I hope you buy them. They’re cluttering up my house, and I need to pay an extraordinarily large electric bill this month, because I live in the goddamn North Pole.

I mean, I know we had an Indian Summer this year, and the days were hot into September. But I didn’t think we’d pay for it by freezing our asses off for all of December. I mean, seriously, it’s the 7th of December. And today I went outside wearing two and three layers, and my ass and my teeth were so cold I couldn’t think straight. And my ass (or The Mountain, as I like to call it) does not get cold. Ever. I keep it enormous so that it keeps me warm. It’s the size of my friend Lauren’s studio apartment. So the fact that The Mountain froze means that we have some seriously crazy-ass weather going down right now. I mean, it would have been warmer if it had snowed. How fucked up is that?

So, I hope that you enjoy my paintings, because I need to heat The Art Shack.

This was the first Snarky Card that I ever wrote. It sells like crazy. Everyone loves this card. Well, who can blame them. Everyone loves rejection, when you can do it to someone else.

There’s something secretly delicious about rejecting other people. Whether you’re interviewing for a job, apartment hunting, or plain old dating, being the first one to conclude that “This isn’t going to work” comes with it’s own secret, guilty, glee. When you reject first, it implies that you’re better than that job, apartment, person. Or that you think you’re better (which is the same thing, really).

And this card doesn’t have any bad words, and no real assignment of blame. It simply states that you think you’re better than someone else. And so you can’t see any kind of future relationship. Which is what you mean when you say all the crap you find yourself saying when you’re trying to “dump someone nicely”. (Which by the way is a waste of time).

Maybe you take home people for the wrong reasons.

Like the time I took home that Frank Sinatra impersonator, which was ironic, because I hate Frank. Or the time I slept with a guy because he made a bad (as in poor quality) racist joke. Or the time that I took a guy home because he made great physical comedy with the pads that come in my double D bras, or the time I took a guy home because I thought that we knew each other on Friendster, and had been flirting for weeks. But it turned out we hadn’t, and I didn’t know him at all, he had been purposefully vague so he could get some action. Or the time I slept with a guy because he had cancer. I mean, he didn’t have it anymore, but he hadn’t had sex since he’d had cancer, which is apparently traumatizing. Or the time I slept with a guy because he said he was friends with Kaytee Sackhoff. Or the time I slept with a guy because he was sad. Or the time I slept with a guy because he had a pretty name (Tyler Jewell). By the way, don’t ever do that. His name was pretty. And so was he. And he graded me after sex. I didn’t get an A. But he didn’t really inspire my best kung-fu. And also: he was not giving me much to work with. But did I want to talk about it afterwards? No. I did not.I wanted to pretend like it was good and then walk my ass home. What the fuck, Tyler Jewell? Or the time I slept with that guy because he made a lot of dead-prostitute jokes.

I have a history of bad sexual decisions. And I appreciate it every time someone says that they love me, despite the fact that I offer my vagina up to boys for random and sometimes indiscernible reasons.

So I made this card because I love this idea. That my friends care about me, no matter what kind of crazy random stranger-hate-sex I engage in. And I love that it’s a painting now. I hope you buy it for someone who you love, or someone who you love, who puts my bad sexual decisions to shame.

And then, there’s Fuck you and your fucking Feelings. Maybe you need learn how to tell people to fuck off. Maybe you’re the kind of person to whom strangers tell secrets for no apparent reason, and you’re tired of it. Maybe you are responsible for everyone’s feelings, and you want to take a vacation from that particularly lame job. Or maybe you hate feelings and sees them as a sign of weakness.

Whatever your deal is, I hope you hate feelings enough to buy this painting, which tells feelings to fuck off.

So: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you don’t have to look at ugly people, or eat bad food, or sleep somewhere cold, or have sex with someone you no longer like, or go without sex. I hope that all of your regular problems dissipate into the Christmas booze and food and generosity that they always talk about on tv!

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