So, boobs. You know how much we all love them. If it weren’t for boobs, I would lose half my material (not to mention, half my ballast).
I had a pretty serious breast cancer scare when I was 26 years old. One of my high school classmates died of breast cancer during that same year, when she was also 26. My friend’s mother died of breast cancer before she got to meet her granddaughter. One of the developmentally disabled ladies that my grandmother cared for had both breasts removed. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, couldn’t understand why she couldn’t just swallow some medicine and get better. And honestly, I don’t either. And even after they operated, it wasn’t enough. They just didn’t catch it in time.
You might realize that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, but you might not realize that one in nine women will find a lump in her breast. And one in 27 will die from it. Think about that. I’ll bet you know 27 women. I’ll bet you can think of 27 women just in your own extended family. So, essentially, if someone finds a bad lump, their chances of death is one in three. Think about those odds for a moment. Even the most stalwart realist can’t help but be affected by that. I know that they’re going to figure out a cure for breast cancer, just like when they figured out pennicillin, but it just hasn’t happened yet. But it will. I know that it will. We just have to earn it. We just have to care enough so that the right people are looking for it.
The delightful Minarae is going to walk a staggering 60 miles to raise money for Breast Cancer research. 60 miles. I wouldn’t even drive that far without an iPod and an icy Dasani at my side, so I can’t imagine the tenacity it will take to walk that long.
What is more, the lovely Marn will once again be running for the cure this October. Despite her own recent diagnosis of skin cancer. And that right there is the clincher, people. She’s got an operation coming up but she’s putting aside her own discomfort to make a run to help save the lives of people she’s never met.
I encourage you to donate and support the efforts of these lovely ladies and other Breast Cancer charities in the next few weeks. And, as a special benefit, if you forward me the electronic receipt for your donation (you can remove the amount and your real name if you want), I will write an exclusive Donor Only entry (wow… a premium! Just like Public Television! Maybe I should look into some Doctor Who coffee mugs or something instead of boring old Weetabix writing). I’m thinking it’s going to be my Survivor Amongst The Martyr’s story that’s been floating around my brain and needs to be written for the fiction workshop I’m taking this semester. Or something else maybe, perhaps something too racy to put out for the internet at large. But whatever it is, it will be EXCLUSIVE! And you don’t want to miss that, now do you? And now back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Dear Dr. New Writing Teacher,
You are such a breath of fresh air that I almost burst into tears of relief in class yesterday. And also, if past experience is any measure, expect a full blown (heh heh… blown) crush from me to you by, oh, end of October.
Sincerely,
Cute Boobsome Girl in Red
PS. Bonus points for talking about Lolita and also for describing your teaching style as “Adult ADD”.
Dear Dr. Frank Asshole,
Thank you for nothing.
Sincerely,
The Girl Who Is So Beyond That Shit
Dear Sunrise Alarm Clock,
Why do you mock me so? How much Zen will I experience when I smash you against the wall, huh? And those “soothing chimes”? Like a psychotic band of monkeys has gotten locked in the xylophone factory.
Sincerely,
Weet
PS. Where is that fucking manual?
Dear Dick Cheney,
You have got to be fucking kidding me,
Ms. Bix
PS. Thank you for inspiring me to make the first political contribution of my life. To the DNC.
Dear Amazing Race,
You are televised crack.
Sincerely,
Weetabix
Dear Crack,
Is there something better than you? Because honestly, I’m getting sick of everyone saying everything is crack. Really, I have no interest in crack myself but people look at me funny when I say something is the televised Kate Spade bag or the pastry iPod or the singer/songwriter version of a steamy Sbux mocha. I know you don’t need a prop, but I sort of wish you did need a smallish prop. Maybe a little dagger or a miniature skull or even an outlandishy striped pair of baggy pants with your shirt stuck out of the zipper.
I’m just saying,
Weet
