Usual Eccentric

An Elementary Act of War

January 15, 2011 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

When I was in the fifth grade, I declared war. Not against my archnemesis Cory Howard, not against my curmudgeon teacher or even that lunch lady who always seemed to short me the cherry in the fruit cocktail each Tuesday. Nope, that would be mere child’s play.

I’m talking about the time I declared war against the nation of Iraq. This was back in early January 1991. Back when Iraq was still Iraq — corpses littered the streets, ethnic cleansing was catching on and funny sounding tribes were killing people in the name of a God who commands murder as a sin. You know, the Iraq we all know and love.

I want to be perfectly clear here about which war I’m talking about. This isn’t what’s going on over there right now. I don’t know what that’s all about, and my guess is nobody does anymore. I’m talking about the first war in Iraq — all 14 glorious minutes of it.

Ironically enough, not only was it the first Iraq war, it was the first Bush, too. Herbert Walker, remember him? What about Stormin’ Norman Schwhatshisname? I’m sure you remember a guy named Saddam Hussein, who was nominated for an Oscar when he reprised his villainous role during the second war in Iraq. (Sadly, he lost to George Clooney. I blame the Hollywood elite.)

The first Iraq war took place after Hussein, Black Manta, Captain Cold and other Legion of Doom members invaded Kuwait for oil, but before Bush the Boy Wonder invaded Iraq looking for weapons of mass distraction .

I was 10 years old at the time and riding the fence between a D and a F in conduct. My teacher, Mrs. Dickerson, used a demerit system for our grade in conduct, and I figured I was closing in on darn near 25. Anything over 25 in a grading period and my father would tan my hide. Naturally, I began rationing my demerits like food.

Dickerson proved to be a worthy adversary for me that year. An unbreakable woman of incredible girth, she carried herself like a grizzly bear and was twice as mean, presumably with a similar appetite. Leading up to fifth grade, my journey through elementary school served to be an unrelenting death march as I faced what seemed like a murderers’ row of terrible (and demerit-incensed) teachers, each worse than the next. I think it was all part of a well-crafted plan by Principal Donaldson to curb my rascal tendencies, and he saved the best — Dickerson — for last.

Now in the days before America’s aerial bombardment campaign to drive Iraqi troops out of Kuwait, Dickerson veered from classroom protocol and allowed students to bring in their earphone radios. Each hour, one student could listen to the radio during a lesson plan on behalf of the class. If news of the war broke, that student was to inform the class so everyone could pull out their radios. Then Dickerson could turn on the classroom’s radio. Remember, this was in the days before the Internet.

I bet you can guess what happened when it was my turn. I had hoped and prayed the war would break out on my turn, but with my one hour of listening to the radio about to expire, I knew I only had one option left.

“Oh my gosh!” I cried, “We just attacked Iraq!”

You would have thought I was trumpeting the rapture as the class quickly devolved into simple beasts, digging into their desks for their radios feverishly. A fight between a boy with a radio and another without one began. And I distinctly recall the sound of screaming, which was a little extreme if you ask me.

Dickerson waddled to the class radio and soon became wise of my ruse before turning her sights on me. Trapped in the corner, Dickerson waded through the sea of children that my chaos created as she licked her chops at the thoughts of my punishment.

One trip to the principal’s office, five more demerits and a few swats on the behind from my father later, I was starting to second-guess my actions. But all these years later, I still don’t regret declaring war against Iraq. I suppose that means I’d make a terrible politician. Or maybe even a great one.

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: Captain Cold, Iraq, Iraq War, Saddam Hussein, Will E Sanders

Confessions of an Adolescent Whipping Boy

January 10, 2011 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

A whopping 65 percent of Americans approve of spanking children, a trend that has not staggered since 1990. Except in 1997, when one angry parent beat up the media statistician in charge of conducting pointless household surveys. Unfortunately, during my childhood, my parents made up the majority.

My girlfriend, Christine, believes in spanking children, but only when they’re really young. In other words, when the child doesn’t know any better and grows curious as to why they’re suddenly the recipient of random household violence. I don’t know if I agree with that. I say spank children when their tiny brains develop enough to begin repressing awful childhood memories.

Little known fact about me, I remember every childhood spanking I ever received. And let me tell you, back in the mid- to late-80s when I was a young tike, corporal punishment was well into its heyday at the Sanders household. Back then, my older brother, Dustin, was too old to spank and my younger brother, Carson, wasn’t born yet, so it was physically impossible to spank him.

My father always seemed like he was licking his chops at the first opportunity for a spanking — smelling childhood mischief in the air the way sharks smell blood in the water. But my father was not an enthusiast for spanking implements such as paddles, belts or freshly-cut switches, the latter being the preferred method of spanking amongst the elderly generations.

My father didn’t need those things because the circumference of his benevolent palm rivaled that of a stop sign. Not to mention, my father took physics and aerodynamics into account. And like an NFL place kicker, he would lick his finger, stick it in the air and determine the direction of any window drafts. Then he would tailor his impending swats accordingly.

On the other hand, mom-spankings were cake. I loved mom-spankings — they were like going to school and learning you had a substitute teacher that day. Yeah, you went through the motions, but you didn’t care.

That is until the day I stole a G.I. Joe from a department store when I was in second grade. Up until that point, I only dabbled in simple mischief, but on that fateful day in 1986, I decided to break one of the Ten Commandments in the toy aisle of a Kmart.

Like most overabundant packaging around toys, I knew I couldn’t shoplift the action figure in my pants unless I ripped open the box, rescued the tiny soldier from his plastic prison and shoved him in my shorts. So obviously, that’s what I did. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for those meddling kids. (Sorry, all of this childhood reminiscing has got me thinking about Scooby-Doo.)

On the way back from the store, my eagerness to play with the figurine consumed me, and I pulled it out of my pocket to admire the spoils of crime. My mother must’ve spotted me in the rearview mirror and quickly deduced the scenario after a brief front seat inquiry.

The next thing I know, my mother slid to a stop along state route 571 like she was pulling into pit row. She walked around the front of our lime green station wagon to the other side of the back seat. She then crawled in and came at me in horror-movie fashion. To this day, what still amazes me is my mother was only three minutes away from home. She apparently felt the spanking couldn’t wait until then.

Once we arrived home a few minutes later, it only got worse.

“Pull ‘em down,” my mother said, furiously searching the kitchen utensil drawer for an effective flogging apparatus. She finally ended up raising a green, paddle-shaped spaghetti strainer — I’ll never forget it — over her head like an executioner’s axe. All I remember next was reciting the Lord’s prayer. It was the first, and thankfully only, bare-butt spanking I ever received.

Of course, later that evening, the Sanders Spank-a-Thon became a trilogy. My father, perhaps knowing of my mom’s ineffective spanking skills, bent me over his knee and did his best Ringo Starr impression.

But you know what? I never stole again.

So, let me take this opportunity to personally thank my parents for spanking me. Thank you for turning me into a (somewhat) productive member of society who realizes politicians and the media can’t be blamed for my personal actions. Now that’s the truth, no matter how painful it may be.

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: Child, Parent, Spank, spankings, Will E Sanders

May Godzilla Have Mercy on Our Souls

December 24, 2010 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

What problem does Godzilla have with Japan anyway? Is there some commonly held belief I’m unaware of? Did Japan do something to him during World War II or something? I mean, he emerges up from the ocean about a few hundred miles south of North Korea. Why doesn’t he ever jaunt up north for a spell and do the world a favor by defusing that situation once and for all? What? You expect me to believe Godzilla doesn’t keep up on current events in his cavernous lair beneath the Pacific Ocean?

Oh sure, he (at least I think it’s a he) attacks America in that horrible Godzilla movie remake, but nobody considers that a true Godzilla remake anyway, or even an actual movie for that matter. I don’t like computer-generated Godzilla. I like my Godzillas dressed up in green Godzilla suits and drunkenly stumbling through scale model cities.

But I think it’s pretty obvious why Godzilla only attacks Japan. Godzilla is a racist.

Now I don’t want to confuse you. I’m not talking just about the Godzilla movies here. I won’t argue that the Godzilla movies, largely based on true accounts, are racist by today’s government-mandated political correctness values — Godzilla isn’t an illegal alien; he’s an “undocumented destroyer.” However, the similarities between the island-country’s provocation — and subsequent awakening thereof — a sleeping giant relative to world history are too flagrant to ignore. If I was some self-righteous movie jerk, I’d add that Godzilla movies are more about the horrors of war and less about the clumsy and drunken antics of an overgrown green lizard tripping over Hot Wheels and matchbox storefronts.

But what I’m also telling you is that Godzilla exists. A Wikipedia account backs this claim up, too, so there’s no reason to deny it. And he or she or it — or whatever Godzilla is — is a total racist. I know, I know, where is Jesse Jackson when we need him the most?

Sometimes when I’m in polite company and I raise the issue of the existence of Godzilla (and his racial tendencies), people scoff and remind me that I’m a complete moron. I guess that’s better than being a complete racist like Godzilla.

Why is it that lots of people subscribe to the notion of the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot and global warming without actual evidence, but they laugh at you when you tell them that Godzilla is real? Nobody questions that dinosaurs roamed the world long ago, so it’s not hard to imagine one possibly surviving. And then developing some unknown grudge against the country of Japan.

Besides, everyone knows the government has covered up the true existence of Godzilla for decades, just like they’ve done with aliens and leprechauns.

And while I’m on the subject: I think Americans have grown far too unappreciative that dinosaurs are extinct. Just think if the dinosaurs survived. It seems to me they would impede the continual progress of humankind, eating lots and lots of people alive along the way.

I do admit that sometimes I wish I was Godzilla, but less racist — preferably not racist at all, if that’s possible (and I don’t know that it is). I have lots of scores to settle, and the ability to squash my foes beneath my boot heels would seem to come in handy.

I wonder how People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) views the existence of Godzilla. I sent a detailed e-mail to their headquarters asking that question, but I received no reply. However, it’s fair to assume the animal rights organization is not enthusiastic about the mutant lizard’s enduring perseverance. Let’s face it: Godzilla has to be a public relations nightmare. Such a nightmare, in fact, that PETA might have to change the meaning of their acronym to mean People for the Eventual Termination of Amphibians.

That might spell disaster for Kermit the Frog, the Geico lizard and possibly even Lindsay Lohan (once and for all), but we’re talking about Godzilla here, folks. I think the ends justify the means. Because it goes without saying that once Godzilla awakens, which could be any day now, he’s going to attack other countries without warrant or reason. Like, zoinks Scoob, who does this guy think he is anyway — an American president or something?

Just remember, if Godzilla ever gets you cornered, tell him a joke. Godzillas love being told stupid jokes, which reminds me. What does Godzilla eat when he goes out to a restaurant? Everyone!

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: Godzilla, Japan, Pacific Ocean, racist, Will E Sanders

A (Not So) Silent Night

December 17, 2010 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

I was in my home office when they came. I was trying to install a pirated version of Microsoft Office at the time, mostly because I’m a jerk. My computer was being slow, so I was yelling at it. Actually, cussing, usually the Lord’s name in vain — something awful considering it’s the holiday season.

The doorbell rang. It was the front door. Anybody whose worth one’s weight in salt knows to go to the side door. Only strangers ring the front door. Immediately, I knew that whoever was out there ringing had heard me cussing, because when I cuss, I do it very loudly. I didn’t know what to do next, so I hid. Silas the Devil Dog wouldn’t stop barking. And all the lights were on. Whoever was outside knew darn well I was home (and probably hiding).

My mind then began to cycle through a number of people it could be at the front door. I thought of all the things I had recently done that might cause someone to come to my house to punch me in the face. I was certain a knockout punch was on the other side of the door. I would have only been so lucky for that.

After a minute, my curiosity got the best of me. I slithered out from underneath my hiding place. I crept to the front door, sliding the curtain to one side as I peeked out — foreboding darkness. Still curious, I opened the door. I crept outside. I was now officially creeping around my front porch, Grinch-style. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fancy array of festive hats being worn by a half-dozen individuals who were on my sidewalk.

“Drats,” I muttered, “I’ve been spotted.” Christmas carolers!

Having spotted me, the carolers turned around and shuffled toward me like yuletide zombies. I panicked, and since I didn’t know what else to do, I just stood still (because I think playing dead only works with bears). Before I knew it, the carolers were all singing to me. They began with “Silent Night” as I just stood there listening and wishing it was silent.

I stared at each of them in 10 second intervals as they sang because I didn’t know how to react. (It’s probably not common courtesy to boo carolers.) Silas was still behind me barking like a maniac. The carolers were unrelenting, but once they finished, I knew the misery was over.

Actually, it wasn’t. They went directly into a nightmarish version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” like an uncalled-for encore.

I scanned my brain for what to say once they were finished. It’s best not to say or ask open-ended things that would extend a line of conversation in such situations. I wanted these carolers off my front porch the way an elderly man wants the neighbor kid off his lawn. Look, if you want to wish me a Merry Christmas, please do so in a non-confrontational way. Send a Christmas card, and I’ll act like I care.

So, they eventually stopped serenading me. “Now what?” I thought. What does etiquette dictate? I’m not inviting them in. And even if I did, I have nothing to offer them. Hot chocolate? Gingerbread men? What am I, an 80-year-old widow? All I could offer them would be a cigarette, or I could nuke some bourbon in the microwave. Carolers like bourbon, right?

Once the carolers finished, I just muttered something like, “It sure is cold, wish I would have grabbed a coat.” Immediately, I went back inside where it was warm and where traditionally strange people don’t sing to me. I grabbed the phone and dialed my mom, who lives four houses away. After all, the carolers were now walking in the direction of her house.

“You need to listen to every word I’m about to tell you,” I told her. “Lock the doors, turn off all the lights and hide. Carolers are coming your way. If you answer that door, it’s going to be a world of awkwardness.”

I could hear my mother racing around the house as I delivered the warning. “There they are,” I heard her say. “They ran up on the porch.”

“They ran? The carolers?” I said, surprised. “That’s odd. Quick! Go upstairs. Mom? Mom, are you OK?”

“I’m safe,” she said as she shambled up the stairway. “Dad’s still downstairs, totally unaware.”

“It’s too late, save yourself!” I ordered.

She laughed: “It’s OK. Your father deserves this.”

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: Christmas, Christmas carol, Christmas carolers, Silent Night

This Cat Must Really Have Nine Lives

December 12, 2010 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

Last Saturday went like any other day until I found myself assisting in the life-saving surgery of my cat, Thumper. Since I’m being serious, I’ll pause while you reflect on that for a moment (and because I need to grab a drink out of the fridge).

Pretty stupid of me, huh? If you enjoy puns, you might say that’s a cat-astrophe waiting to happen. But if you hated puns, you might say that’s a great way for a fellow to kill his pet cat — period!

It all started last Saturday when Thumper (dramatized re-enactment) grabbed me by my shirt collar, shoved a gun in my face and told me to take him to the vet. “I haven’t been able to urinate for two days now — thanks for noticing, by the way — because I have another bladder stone clogging my thingamabob,” Thumper meowed as he puffed on a cigarette. “If you don’t get me to a vet before Monday, there is a good chance I’ll die.”

Have I mentioned this took place on a late Saturday afternoon when all but one vet was open? I tried every number in the phone book to no avail, except for the last number I called.

A man with what seemed like a thick Russian voice answered and explained he had just closed the office. However, the Russian voice also explained to me (in biological terms I won’t mention here) that Thumper would probably not make it much longer. The vet voice told me if I left now, he would see Thumper in a gesture of kindness; he even agreed to waive the $75 emergency fee.

After I arrived, I learned the Russian voice belonged to Dr. Anstadt. He was tall, old and hard of hearing. I SAID he was hard of HEARING!

“NO,” I yelled for the second time to the good doctor, “I have never helped someone put a catheter into a cat before. I don’t imagine you get too many affirmative answers to that question, do you, doc?”

“Would you mind helping?” Dr. Anstadt kindly asked rhetorically.

One need not look any further than our own anatomy to realize putting a catheter in a human is probably no easy trick, but cats are much smaller. And so is … everything else. It seemed like trying to thread a needle with an 18-wheeler.

You ever watch that alien autopsy footage? You know, that grainy, Zapruder-esque black-and-white footage that shows a disturbingly strange being tied down on a metal examining table as two guys poke and prod it? It was exactly like that.

Don’t ask me how, but eventually the good doctor threaded the semi through the needle. He paused. Nothing happened.

“Ge-ive it a mome-ment,” Dr. Anstadt articulated.

“Give what a moment?” I wondered as I held the rubber hose that was attached to the end of the cat catheter. Foolishly, however, the hose was pointed directly back at me. Thumper began spouting like a garden sprinkler. Like Jed Clampett, Dr. Anstadt and I struck liquid gold. By the time I paid the vet bill, I wish we had struck actual liquid gold though, and not the metaphorical kind that smells like cat urine.

So, now Thumper is exclusively eating specialty cat food to better suit his dietary needs, which means it’s now much cheaper to feed myself than my own cat. And that wouldn’t be all that bad, but Thumper’s eating healthier than me now, too.

Here’s the tale of the tape:

One bag of prescription cat food (yes, prescription cat food) runs about $17, and it has higher protein and fiber percentages than most of the offerings at the fast food joints I frequent. Thumper’s magical, mortgage-busting food has ingredients I’ve never heard of, like brewers rice, chicken, pork and eggs.

My Big Mac meal has the stuff I’m more use to. Ingredients like good old-fashioned sodium stearoyl lactylate, calcium peroxide, and my personal favorite: ethoxylated monoglycerides — and that’s just three of the 31 ingredients in the bun! (Look it up if you think I’m lying.)

I’m going to be completely honest with you. I’ve considered eating the cat food. You know, just trying it. I like rice, chicken and pork — it makes sense, you know? I put a piece of it in my mouth, but I won’t tell you if I swallowed.

After all, the cat’s got my tongue and my wallet, too.

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: Cat, Nutrition, Pet food, Pets

The Naked Truth about Airport Security

November 26, 2010 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

I want to discuss something very near and dear to my heart, not to mention my groin. I want to talk about my genitals and your genitals, too — that’s right, I want to take this opportunity to address our genitals. Unless you happen to be some sorta pervert, our genitals are a very private matter to us, and most of us (aside from perverts) have gone to great lengths to keep it that way. Now, it’s all about to change.

I’m talking about the full-body scanners now in place at airports across the country that are ensuring our friendly skies remain that way — apparently at the cost of our boxers, bras and dignity. That’s because these X-ray machines snap XXX-rated photographs of your, let us say, unmentionables. In fact, “genitals” alone has been referenced by the national media more times this week than ever before, the entire Clinton administration notwithstanding, of course.

Although, I do have to admit that a device capable of seeing through clothes is something born straight from my own imagination. With technology’s ushering in of X-ray vision, it’s natural to assume flying cars are just around the corner. And by that time, we won’t concern ourselves with airport nonsense like we do today. Nevertheless, I don’t think Americans will ever warm up to the idea of near-nude public humiliation for transportation reasons, either. That’s a stretch, even for perverts.

Sort of makes me wonder if this pornographic contraption was thoroughly researched and developed correctly. Or did the manufacturers of this XXX-ray machine just assume we would all be totally jazzed about showing off our genitals to everyone all of the sudden? And just in time for Thanksgiving travel plans!

I bet the whole genital thing is a real deal breaker for some people, even for the most veteran of plane passengers. Isn’t flying already bad enough? Besides dealing with that screaming brat kicking the back of your seat, in-flight meals and the guy who insists on sharing your arm rest with you, now guess what? Say cheese, bucko, a complete stranger is photographing your genitals like a nightmare version of school picture day.

So in summation, it you weren’t scared to death of flying before, you should be now.

Apparently, you can opt out of the full-body scanner and submit to an aggressive pat-down. That’s nice to know, because why have your genitals photographed when you can have them groped, right? Honestly, that’s the compromise! Submit to a naked photo or get a pat-down from a stranger.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t think this is just an American thing, either. Nope, I think mankind has put forth a pretty stalwart case regarding other people inspecting our private areas. I imagine this spirit holds true across the globe, even those tribes that live all naked-like in the jungle — though they’ve probably never seen a plane before.

Oh, but remember the terrorists? That’s what they’re dangling in front of us as that constant reminder for cooperation. Blowhard politicians and savvy media gadflies protest that giving in, or not giving in, is letting the terrorists win.

Win at what? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was totally unaware that the overall aim of terrorism was to have our private areas photographed. Yes, the terrorists want to catch America with its pants down, but I’m not sure this is what they meant by it. Nor am I convinced Americans will allow this metaphorical wedgie to our rights to stand for much longer.

However, as much as I enjoy the same rights to privacy as my genitalia, I must simply concede that my genitals are not the least bit enthused of potentially getting blown to smithereens by some terrorist. All I’m saying is, there is more than one way to milk a cow besides taking a picture of the udder.

And the ironic thing is, we let anyone walk right into this country, but whoa daddy if you’re an American trying to board a plane. Want to hop the border and face no security measures whatsoever? Yeah, well if you feel like going from Boston to Philadelphia, we’re going to put our paws all over you!

So, the next time you’re heading off to the airport, remember to take your mother’s advice: Make sure you’re wearing a clean pair of underwear or at the very least, underwear.

Filed Under: Usual Eccentric Tagged With: airport security, Full body scanner, genitalia, scanners, Transportation Security Administration, TSA, Will E Sanders

Christine and Our Cancer

October 29, 2010 By Will E Sanders, Creators Syndicate Leave a Comment

When someone you love dearly has cancer, it’s like you have been diagnosed with it, too. At some point, my girlfriend Christine’s ovarian cancer became our cancer. The physical pain she felt after treatments, as she curled herself into a ball on the couch clutching a blanket, became my pain, as well. Our pain.

We’re young — what the hell should we know about cancer? We’re immortal, right? Cancer is something our parents and their friends are suppose to deal with.

I met Christine three weeks after my wife left me. After a week of solitude, my friends thought it would be a good idea to set up a profile on a popular social networking site, and so I did. That’s how Christine and I met. That’s how her cancer became our cancer.

Corresponding over the Internet, we were both upfront; I told her I was going through a divorce and she told me she had ovarian cancer. Soon enough, we agreed to meet. We were not looking for anything serious. Life, or so it seemed, simply would not allow it.

I won’t lie to you. I know it sounds selfish, but I had to seriously ask myself if I could get involved with a girl who had cancer. I wasn’t looking for more heartache at the time. But I dove in, because that’s what you do when you truly love someone.

Sometimes the most amazing people in life are people you already know. Christine is definitely one of them. She works 40-hour weeks (where health insurance is not offered), cleans the house (without anyone asking her), and never complains about life or her cancer. She doesn’t say things like, “This isn’t fair; I’m only 23.” Instead, she remains positive and focused on conquering cancer. Our cancer.

“Why don’t you ever let it get you down?” I asked her once.

“I did at first,” she replied, “but I soon learned that if I sat around and thought about it all the time, I wouldn’t want to get out of bed in the morning.”

I had a lot of questions about it at first. Christine did her best to answer them. But at the end of the day, no amount of self-denial, or humor, could shield me from reality — my girlfriend has cancer. And people die from cancer all the time, even those too young to die.

Christine only cried once after her diagnosis. She eventually broke down in the public restroom in the restaurant where she works full time (and where medical insurance is not provided). Thankfully, Christine caught it early because she annually visits her gynecologist, which is behavior I now condone for women of all ages. That was three years ago.

Then there was last Monday — the day Christine and I went in for her latest checkup. Ironically, it was my birthday. As I sat in the waiting room alone, I reflected on everything we had been through over one year. I thought about a future that Christine might not be a part of. I mulled over the prospect of perhaps never being able to have children with Christine. It was there in that waiting room that I made the only birthday wish that I ever really cared about.

And it was the only birthday wish I made that ever came true. Our cancer was cured.

I don’t know what the future has in store for us. I can’t say with any certainty if our cancer will come back. It might. It might not. Life is funny, and I don’t pretend to understand it. But I simply refuse to let it dominate my thoughts any longer. Life is too short, and the best parts of it are gone too fast to worry about where the road will take you or whether or not you have enough gas money to make the trip.

In the end, I’m reminded of something Christine wrote for me when we first met: “My passion and my love for life in general is the only thing I have that lets me live a somewhat ‘normal’ life,” she penned. “Our one purpose in life is to create love and, in the process, to be loved.”

Please remember that ovarian cancer is one of the deadliest cancers in women, in part because it’s often detected at an advanced stage. Over the next year, 15,000 women will die as a result. The fight against cancer begins with awareness and routine medical examinations.