Sunday, April 29, 2007

Spank Bank

Jessica AlbaI’m not claiming to be a lady’s man in any shape or form. When it comes to girls I’m about as worthless as it gets. Nevertheless, I find female presence absolutely necessary for young men, even if they’re just to look at.

During my two-month hospital stay, some of the days I was too fucked-up to think about girls. If Jessica Alba had walked into my room ready to bump uglies I’d probably have told her to leave me alone. “Try the dude next door. He’s like 14, he might want to.”

But many of my hospital days I thought about girls more than anything else, with the exception of food. Sometimes I’d look out my window hoping to get a long-distance glimpse of a girl walking by. Weird fantasies would enter my head, like a strong gust of wind hitting a girl in a miniskirt.

The only humans I saw each day were my family, doctors and nurses. Bingo. Besides modeling, you won’t find a profession with more hot girls than nursing. I’ve had tons of nurses over the years. Many were attractive. Some were among the hottest women I’ve ever seen.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I became a sexual deviant, but those countless days in the hospital did pervert me just a tad. I got angry if a male nurse took the shift normally designated for one of my hotties. I ranked my nurses, both in total hotness, and in categories such as “Nicest Ass.”

One night I dreamt that my #1 hottie entered my room, and without saying a word, took her clothes off and slid beneath the sheets with me. The dream was so real that over the next couple nights I expected her to do just that. I began praying for it. Obviously I was disappointed.

At night sometimes my nurses would enter my room while I was awake. When they turned around I would quickly take a mental picture for later use. It’s a shame there isn’t a “Tivo for real life” because I would leave that on pause forever. I didn’t want to get caught staring at their butts, so I rushed myself. The pictures still did their job, though.

That brings me to my next point. The human body has a way of taking care of business, whether you want to or not. And honestly, for weeks I didn’t want to. But when I got my first wet dream in years I knew something needed to be done.

The hospital isn’t exactly the easiest setting to clean the pipes. At night the nurses don’t knock because they don’t want to wake the patient. Based on your meds schedule and your next blood pressure check, you can find your best opportunity to use those mental pictures.

I prayed hard for my #1 hottie to get naked, but I prayed a fuckload harder for her not to catch me.

Keep reading:
Spank Bank: Part II

Leia Mais…

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Happy Birthday, Bone Marrow

Today at approximately 11:30 AM, my bone marrow turns four years old. She’s been excited about this for days. And to answer your question, yes my bone marrow is a she, and no, that doesn’t make me a transsexual or anything (…not that there’s anything wrong with that). My donor just happened to be the stem cells of a newborn baby girl’s umbilical cord.
Baby and umbilical cord My bone marrow is such a smart little girl. She taught herself how to write and do advanced Calculus. I think she’s one of those bone marrow prodigies.

Last month she made out her birthday list. Here is what she asked for:

1. DVD box set of the children’s show Bob the Builder

At first I was glad she wanted to learn how to build shit, but all she does is watch the introductory song over and over again. She better think again if she thinks I’m going to waste my money on something she’ll barely use. Plus that damn song drives me crazy.

2. A new doll collection and a pink dollhouse

This is where I put my foot down. No bone marrow of mine is going to play with dolls. And does it really have to be pink? When I told her I found a camouflage dollhouse on sale, she temporarily stopped making my platelets. Bone marrow and her temper tantrums.

Fortunately, I still have some old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles she can play with. Of course, the last time I tried to get her to play with them she ripped Michelangelo’s head off. Poor bastard.

3. Hello Kitty cell phone, purse, necklace and watch
Let me first say that although my bone marrow knows Calculus, she doesn’t know how to tell time. So what the hell does she want a watch for? And a cell phone and purse? It’s not like she has any money, and let’s be honest, she doesn’t have any friends either. I don’t let her play with the other bone marrows. That’s just gross.

4. Complete tea set

We’re not British. We’re Americans, and we like energy drinks. I suppose I could buy her the little cups but fill them with Red Bull. She wouldn’t even know the difference.

It looks like this is going to be another year filled with little girl activities. All I want is for her to learn golf and make me money. Is that too much to ask? Last year I bought her a putting green and miniature putter, but all she did was hit me and complain that I don’t listen to her. Blah blah blah.

At the very least couldn’t she learn how to play basketball? To be fair I did buy her a Fisher-Price indoor hoop and she actually liked it. I got a little excited one afternoon and did a reverse dunk. It kind of broke in half. She got kind of pissed, and now says she’ll never play again. I was just trying to be Kobe, she should understand.

My bone marrow is really getting excited about preschool next year. She wanted to go last year but I wouldn’t let her because I thought I’d be bored without her. Instead I listened to Bob the Builder. Huge mistake.

I already warned her about bullies. We even practiced some self-defense maneuvers, just in case. At first I wanted to teach her karate, but quickly realized I don’t know how. Come to think of it, I don’t know how to do anything. Mainly I just taught her the traditional moves – ball kicking, hair pulling and eye gouging. In order to perfect the techniques, I showed her a vintage video of The Bushwhackers.

Happy Birthday, sweetie!


Postscript: Some cancer survivors celebrate their diagnosis; I celebrate the freedom. Today really is four years since my bone marrow transplant and I certainly plan on celebrating. This, as well as my other freedom day, have become holidays. This holiday is titled BM B-Day 4, short for Bone Marrow Birthday 4.

I don’t want to jinx anything so I won’t spell it out, but I think you’re all aware of the significance of 5 years. The countdown begins.

Leia Mais…

Saturday, April 21, 2007

The Stumbler: Part II

Read this first:
The Stumbler

Two days after graduating from high school in 2002, my friends and I went to Beach Week at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The Stumbler came, got drunk, and had stories to tell afterward…if only he could remember them. That’s where I come in.

Our friend Mr. Mountain Dew stayed in the house directly across the street from us, so the two of us often hung-out there. Those were some crazy fucks. They actually drove all the way from Manassas, Virginia with a U-Haul trailer full of alcohol (mostly just Milwaukee’s Best.) It’s safe to say that some of them may also have trouble remembering.

One of them brought two pairs of boxing gloves, so there were always people fighting. Of course, The Stumbler wanted in on this action at the peak of his intoxication. In a normal scenario we would all be straight-headed enough to know that he shouldn’t box in that state of mind. But, our logical reasoning was shot to hell. We really wanted to see a boxing match for the ages.

The two fighters entered the sandy ring and stared the other down. The Stumbler wobbled from side to side, struggling not to tip over. Mr. Mountain Dew knew his far superior boxing skills, combined with The Stumbler’s enormous BAC, would lead him to victory. Mr. Mountain Dew at least has the courtesy to ask The Stumbler, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Mmm-hmm,” The Stumbler replied.

The bell rang and the two fighters squared-off, Mr. Mountain Dew in a black t-shirt and The Stumbler in a white one.

Everybody watching already knew the outcome before it started. Everyone except for The Stumbler, that is. I saw the look in his eye – that night he wanted to KILL Mr. Mountain Dew. He wanted to make him SUFFER.

And so they began. At first Mr. Mountain Dew got a few jabs in while The Stumbler wobbled. Each time he got hit he’d giggle for a second, and then his face would turn to rage. When the time was right The Stumbler went for the knockout…and missed.

Mr. Mountain Dew clobbered him and he went down hard, his nose bleeding all over his white t-shirt. Everyone cheered and expected The Stumbler to stay down, but he got up. To be honest I was worried something bad would happen, but this was just too entertaining to breakup. Mr. Mountain Dew continued the onslaught, knocking The Stumbler down a few more times. And The Stumbler kept getting up, madder each subsequent time. He continued to send huge right hooks at Mr. Mountain Dew but never connected. Finally, The Stumbler took a hard shot to the left cheek, fell back and down a few stairs. TKO.

Don’t worry Stumbles, it happens to the best of us.

Keep reading:
The Stumbler: Part III

Leia Mais…

Monday, April 16, 2007

Window through Time

Hospital room windowLarge windows, small windows, high-up windows, low to the ground windows, screened windows – I looked through them all. Some windows stared at other parts of the hospital campus, whereas others watched over the world, waiting patiently for Nature to make her next move. I saw the complete cycle of seasons, from fall all the way back to fall again. The brief period of deciduous trees releasing their brilliant colors. The swirling of those colors in the cold air, before resting on the ground. The naked trees waiting for the winter to end so they can sprout back to life. The snow flurries that transform the sky into a white galaxy. The world seemingly coming to life, leaving the trees not-so-naked anymore. The steady rain that clinks against the window. The heavy rain that pounds against the window. The lightning that electrifies the window. The thunder that shakes the window. And then it starts all over again.

Looking back at cancer #1, the anticipation of leaving the hospital and joining the world began as soon as I entered the darkness of the parking garage for another cycle of chemo. It didn’t end until I was out of the garage, face-to-face with whatever Nature decided to produce. It was freedom, for however long until the next hospital visit.

There aren’t many things I’m absolutely sure of anymore. But this I know – the world outside that window was better than inside.

Looking through the window another way provides a different story. It was the same window and the same view, just a different point in time.

I saw the future without cancer.

Looking through it this way, the world on the outside often seemed so far away. The time to reach freedom was much longer than the two or five-day cycles. In this particular case it was precisely one year. And like before, I sometimes reflect on which is better – inside or outside the window.

An unbiased observer would be quick to assume the outside world is better.

Having cancer versus being cancer-free… it’s a no-brainer, right?

Not necessarily. Having cancer, and even staying in the hospital for that matter, wasn’t all bad. Activities, feelings, and emotions were all heightened.

Getting released from the hospital brought extreme relief.

Rehab brought extreme pain.

Eating real food brought extreme joy.

Knowing I had an entire year of that fucking shit brought extreme despair.

With cancer, I felt truly excited doing activities that nowadays I merely consider normal. Does that mean I now take things for granted – something I told myself I would never do again?

Sometimes memories are changed, for better or worse. Maybe the way I actually felt when I was 16 has been construed in favor of more positive experiences because my mind wants me to think that.

I don’t know the answer. There’s no way for me to go back in time and gauge my level of happiness at different periods of my life.

Hopefully when I’m old and gray I’ll know which side of the Window through Time is better.

Leia Mais…

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

New York's Finest


In my 3rd year at UVA I lived with three other guys. One of them, who we’ll call T-Unit, happened to be one of the coolest people I’ve ever met. T-Unit is a 29-year-old who grew up in low-income areas and went to some of the worst public schools in New York. Yet, he still managed to graduate from the second ranked undergraduate business program in the nation (UVA’s McIntire School of Commerce).

We lived together when my academic laziness was nearly at its peak, so I spent much of my time in the living room watching TV. T-Unit had a sick ability to study and watch TV at the same time, so he often hung out with me. We’d have long conversations about everything, from politics to sports. From the outside it wouldn’t seem like we had anything in common: I’m white, he’s black, I’m short, he’s tall, I grew-up in the suburbs and he grew-up in the city. Maybe it was what I had gone through that allowed us to connect. He once gave me the ultimate props, saying, “I guess you had it pretty rough too, huh?”
New York City skylineMy life story got interesting when I was 16, while his life’s always been out of the ordinary. “Alright T-Unit,” I said to him late one night, “Tell me some crazy shit about your life that I’ve never heard before.”

“Oh Rubenstein, this you can’t handle, son.”

“Come on,” I said laughing. “Lay it on me.”

“You asked for it. Let’s see, where do I start…I used to skip school a lot and play Street Fighter II Championship Edition. I was very good and talked a lot of shit. People at the mall got mad and wanted to fight for real.”

“I used to play Street Fighter. I was pretty good, too. Go on.”

“I got my first blowjob when I was eight, from the neighborhood whore. I was also eight the first time I got drunk off orange flavored Cisco; I was sick all night.”

“What the hell is Cisco? And eight years old? What is that, like 3rd grade or something?”

“It’s like wine, and yeah I was young. Aight, this is some crazy shit Rubenstein – I been held at knifepoint and robbed in Queens 1992, held at gunpoint and pistol-whipped in Queens 1997, chased by angry transvestites after spraying them with a fire extinguisher in Manhattan 1998, and shot at in Richmond 2002. I unknowingly smoked weed laced with PCP in my first semester of college at SUNY-Old Westbury.”

“What is that?”


“No man, SUNY?”

“State University of New York. Yo, I got more…I was in a real bad car accident in Queens 1998 on our way back to the crack house I lived in, after picking up these girls.”

“You were living in a crack house? That’s not good, buddy.”

“Well, I didn’t know the owner of the house was a crackhead, nor did I know he had these crackheads comin’ over. My head went through the glass of the SUV and a tiny fiber of it stuck in my left eye. Man, that shit’s never been the same. The police there accused us of murdering somebody nearby a few weeks before, told us, ‘We know what’s going on.’ Whenever you hear a cop say that, you know he don’t know shit. The NYPD’s success is achieved through intimidation, brutality, and unlawful searches. Anyways, a stripper who rented a room in the crack house was always tryin’ to grab or touch my cock. Man, I could be sittin’ down next to her and she’d just go for it, or I could be peeing in the bathroom and she’d kick the door in to look. Maybe if she wasn’t so crazy with her approach I might have let her.”

“So you got a lot of girls when you were younger, huh?”

“Oh yeah. When I transferred to an alternative high school in the city I met this nasty bitch in chemistry from the Bronx. She was always writin’ me notes, sayin’ how handsome I was, and then she invited me to her house. She had dildos and shit on her dresser and gave me the ass on the second visit. Rubenstein, I was jugglin’ as many as 10 girls at once. It was hard work, hard damn work brotha. But it works out great. See, you may not bone ‘em all, but you’ll get at least half your rotation in the sack. And when you have one that has sex rules, it all works itself out.”

“What kind of sex rules?”

“Like you have a chick that says you have to wait three months or six months or even nine months to get them draws, no sweat. See, you got 10 all together; 5 are gonna give some butt, 3 are gonna make you wait varying times, but 2,” he said laughing, “they gonna fuck you either immediately or within a matter of days. This makes you look patient with the other ‘self-respecting’ chicks who make you wait to hit it, but all the while you’re getting your dick wet elsewhere. You see, it’s all a game – you just gotta know how to play. See what I’m sayin’?”

“Oh, I got you.”

“So, I first went to college when I was 17 and I had this big afro. I mean this thing was fucking huge. SUNY was an odd experience and I didn’t really like anyone there except my cousin and her suitemate. Cats didn’t like me ‘cause I kept it real. I am kind of a weird dude, always have been, but I always got along with the real n****s. All the cats in my suite was mad fake except for this Asian dude, but they sonned him anyway. I don’t like to be forced to do shit, even if it’s something I like. Case in point, they convinced me to let this chick who needed a place stay in my room. But then, they was pushing me to slip her the salami. See, I’m not that type of guy, I don’t know if you know that, Rubenstein.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that out. I don’t like to be forced to do things, either.”

“I looked at her as if I’m doin’ her a favor. If she wants the salami I’ll give it to her, but the light has to be green. Now this chick is in my bed with no bottom on, just a top. You see, that’s not a green light. That shit’s yellow. If the bitch wanna give me the ass, she gotta throw that shit at me. If she want it, I make her say she want it and then she can have it. See, it’s part of breakin’ a chick down. Once she throws herself at you, you got complete control. She’s thirsty for the dick, now you keep your cool and act like it’s no big deal. That lets her know that, ‘Hey bitches, throw me the pussy all day, you’re just another one.’ You know, I should have lost my virginity very young. At this party in my apartment I had cornered this cute chick who was a little older than me and I started creepin’ toward her while she smilin’ and whatnot, when what the fuck happens? I stepped on a fuckin’ big ass safety pin that was on the floor. Went right through my foot ‘bout three or four inches deep. I cried like the child I was. Oh well.”

“When you say young, do you mean like eight?”

“Yeah…or maybe seven, I can’t remember.”

“Holy shit.”

“Now, South Jersey is the place to go for girls, man. You can get there with little money, and there are plenty of big city-lovin’ girls. This girl that used to live next to me when we were in grade school moved to South Jersey, we had a little thing back in the day. I heard that some boyfriend of hers took exception to our relationship. He rang the doorbell with one of his boys one day – what an idiot. Little did he know that I’d just phoned my boys from the block to come help me deal with a little ‘problem’. Man, I’ll never forget that scene, it was like out of Gladiator, or something. This group of dudes runnin’, some on bikes, waving bats and sticks full speed toward my house. My crew was just two or three minutes too slow, which might have been a good thing, cause we mighta killed them n****s. You following me?”

“No, not at all, but please continue, this is fascinating.”

“Where was I? Oh yeah…life was cool in the mid to late ‘90s. I was a ghetto superstar. I had money for weed, liquor, and Chinese food. And I had hoes – pretty, voluptuous, busted, fat, smart, stupid, white, black, it don’t matter. They all have a purpose. My man Goo kept me with the new shit like kicks, fitteds, jerseys. I had the first two-way and Motorola flip that ever came out. The cutest available chick wanted to get with me. It was a beautiful time. I’d ride in my man’s whip jonesin’ on the cellular wit my Columbia chick, drunk on the way South. I’d give out food to people on the block. I can’t front, it felt real good to be me back then.”

“You seriously had the first flip phone?”

“Das right…Richmond,” he said after a long pause, “If you young and single and don’t mind the occasional gunfire, there’s no fuckin’ way you couldn’t love this place. If you like to fuck you better have an assload of condoms because you gonna get some ass in Richmond. It seems like bitches was comin’ to class just to show off they thongs and flirt with me. Not all of them, but enough. My proficiency in class only made things iller there. Bitches want you to tutor them, but you gotta wonder how true that is when they come to your house to study drinkin’, leanin’ over on your couch and exclaiming, ‘Oh, is my thong showing?’ Bad bitches, too. The thing that was most fun wasn’t fuckin’ though, it was NOT fuckin’.”

“Stop right there. You’re telling me that you got so much ass that you’d prefer to not?”

“See, at a certain point fuckin’ gets lame. I mean the shit becomes too fuckin’ easy, especially coming from NYC to the South. I used to fuck wit ‘em mentally, lead ‘em on kinda. I’d play the bullshit friend role that they like to play with n****s. That was even more fun than bonin’ a bunch of hoes because the moment you slide your meat in them, the challenge is over. I like to bust nuts, but I need a challenge. This is a true story, Rubenstein – this one bitch, who was the girl of this cat I used to work with, actually asked her boyfriend to ask me, ‘What was up with me and her.’ I looked at him oddly and asked him what she meant, which he did, and she replied through him, ‘You know what she means.’ I was like this shit is bugged out. How is this dude passin’ openly flirtatious messages from his girlfriend to me like he doesn’t care? It was like them dudes down South expected and accepted the fact that NY n****s was supposed to get ass from they girls and there wasn’t much they could do about it.”

“That’s insane.”

“I had to try and convince people at school that I wasn’t fuckin’ the baddest bitch in that muhfucka because she was always following me around school feedin’ in class.”

“What do you mean ‘feeding’?”

“Yo, I mean literally putting morsels of food in my mouth.”


“Yep…not your typical story, huh?”

“No T-Unit, not at all.”

When the school year was over, T-Unit graduated and moved up north to live with his wife and newborn son. I sure miss that guy and our conversations.

Leia Mais…

Friday, April 6, 2007


University of Virginia Rotunda Going into college my doctors advised me not to get stressed-out, and I had no trouble abiding by their recommendation.

After my second cancer I took their advice to a whole new level. I decided that I wouldn’t allow anything, especially school, to stress me out physically or mentally. This had become my general attitude toward life since my original cancer, but now it reached a ridiculous level as I refused to sacrifice going to the gym, eating or watching TV for studying. I even had a rule that I wouldn’t let studying dig into my eight hours of sleep.

In case you don’t believe me, my GPA speaks for itself:

1st semester – 3.17

This was the only semester before cancer #2. Although it wasn’t up to my high school standards, a B average isn’t too bad.

2nd semester – 2.77

B- average isn’t too good. I even had a reduced course load, taking only nine credits. But I had just finished beating cancer, again; cut me some slack.

3rd semester – 2.58

Like I already said, my priorities were set. Academics were somewhere toward the bottom, right alongside contracting Koro syndrome.

One class had a project due a few weeks before the semester ended. When I got to class that day, I noticed that all my classmates had project folders in front of them.

It’s not due until next week, is it?

“What’s in your folder?” I asked the dude next to me.

“Uhh…my project.”


Not only had I not begun, I hadn’t even looked at what the project entailed. Luckily, my professor let me turn it in a few days later with a grade penalty. Needless to say, I broke my sleep rule a few nights in a row.

4th semester – 2.38

I like to call this the transition period. During this semester, school actually increased in my priorities. How so you ask? My new goal was to see how low my GPA could get without me getting academic warning. I think I did pretty well.

In one class we were given a grading option called the “Dutch Knockout”. This basically meant that if your grade going into the final exam sucked, then that test alone would determine your entire grade. When I got a 44 on the first test, I stopped going to discussion section and didn’t even take the second test. The week leading up to the final exam I studied my ass off. To save time I went to McDonald’s seven times in eight days. One day I even went twice, for a total of four double cheeseburgers. Ronald did his job, though – I pulled off a C+.

5th semester – 1.97

And you thought academic warning was 2.0? So did I, but in fact it’s 1.8. In terms of doing just well enough not to be a fuck-up, it doesn’t get much better than this.

Surprisingly, the most impressive academic performance of my life occurred in this semester. One of my classes was called Introduction to Statistical Analysis. I had a solid F going into the final, having looked at the book for no more than 10 minutes.

For three days prior to the test all I did was study the book, page by page. When my apartment’s electricity went out only hours before test time, I kept studying with a flashlight. I aced the test and finished the course with a C-.

6th semester – 2.53

This semester I started trying and my grade point improved significantly. However, the GPA specifically for my Economics major dropped to 2.09. I began to fear that the Econ Department would kick me out and make me declare a different major.

By this time I began questioning my own intelligence, wondering if I even belonged at UVA.

7th semester – 3.08

It’s nice to know I’m not a complete moron.

8th semester - ?
I don’t know how this semester will turn out, but at the moment my grades are A, A, B+ and C+.

Can you guess what the C+ is in?

It’s in my writing class.

Leia Mais…

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

newspaper article: I've Still Got Both My Nuts

This is an article I wrote for my school newspaper, The Cavalier Daily, which printed today. Notice the shameless self-promotion.

I've still got both my nuts
A true cancer blog

Benjamin Rubenstein, Cavalier Daily Perspective

When I was first diagnosed with cancer my junior year of high school, I never thought I would write about it. Take your licks and move on, I thought to myself. Some scars, a limp and a year later, that's exactly what I did -- I moved on.

I joined the Key Club just like everyone else to boost my college resume (I only attended one meeting). I was elected parliamentarian of both Chess Club and "It's Academic," even though I still don't know what that word means. Sadly, my chess record by the end of the year was 0-19 and I failed to correctly answer a single question in "It's Academic" competitions. I wanted to be president of Quill & Scroll but didn't even show up to the election. Instead, I signed a paper that read, "Ben Rubenstein is running for president," and gave it to another member. "Make sure they know I'm running," I told her. "And make sure I win."

Regrettably, for some convoluted reason I felt it was necessary to leave my fellow cancer patients in my past along with my mutated cells. I didn't even attempt to keep in touch with them. I didn't know my friend's cancer had returned until he was almost dead.

Fast forward a year to my first year of college. I was accepted into U.Va. "by default," as I always say. This was back in the good old days when O-Hill sucked. It even used to tease us by serving its best dish, chicken parmigiana, once every few weeks. Matt Schaub and Billy McMullen were still bringing the house down, while Pete Gillen was still sweating profusely.

Enter cancer number two.

I'm a little older and a little wiser. Before beginning treatment, I'm given a diary with the specific instructions: "You could write in it and then make it into a book someday." Apparently, I wasn't wise enough, because I threw the diary in the trash. Take your licks and move on, I thought to myself.

Several more scars and a year later, I moved on by getting my first summer job, working at Hollywood Video. I originally applied to Blockbuster, but apparently I wasn't qualified because my application was, for some reason, "red-flagged." I did it not for the money, or for the job experience, but for the free movie rentals.

My fellow employee and I at Hollywood Video used to have races to see who could remove 20 DVD security locks faster. There was no question that I had far superior skills, but when it came time for the race, I got nervous and lost my touch. After he beat me for the third time, I gave him the candy money he earned. "I'm done racing, you always beat me."

One night at work that July, I was clobbered by a powerful idea -- the same idea that was suggested to me one year earlier. I should write a book.

First I wondered whether my experiences were deserving of a book. Surely, beating cancer three times was, but I wasn't too thrilled about that idea. Surviving it twice before the age of 20 sounded pretty worthy.

Second, I thought about my aversion to books. I read on average one book a year. Why would I write one when I don't even like reading?

Third, I thought about my aversion to documenting cancer experiences. Everybody has had cancer and everybody writes about it. Plus, writers aren't very cool.

But man, was my idea strong. It pulsed through my brain until I could no longer ignore it. You don't have to know how to read to write a book, do you?

And I was never very cool to begin with.

It was decided. That night when I got home, I wrote the worst 500 words ever put on paper. No matter how it turned out, I knew I wanted to keep it real. I titled it "I've Still Got Both My Nuts: A True Cancer Story" for three reasons:

1) I do, in fact, still have both my testicles.

2) It sounded funny in my head.

3) I wanted to playfully knock on Lance Armstrong, who no longer has both of his. That is the only thing I have on cancer's poster boy.

My first move was to hire my friend to be my editor for $0. "If I make $10 million then I'll give you $1 million," I told her.

"Deal," she said.

Between slacking on schoolwork and watching sports, I managed to finish my 144,000-word memoir. I then gave it to my friend, who edited and refined the heck out of it. The final product was a 400-page manuscript the two of us were very proud of.

To my amazement, professional editors liked it as well. Some even wanted to buy and publish it. But in the end, none of them would take a risk on a young, unknown writer of a book focused on cancer, which normally only sells for celebrities. You won't see me quit though, especially when it comes to my book, which may be the most important thing I'll ever do.

The next step was to start a blog and build a name for myself. Once I become famous I may get a book deal -- that's what they say. And with over 55 million blogs, how hard could that be?

My friend and I debated how many Web site hits I need to be considered famous. He said somewhere in the five digits and I said somewhere in the sevens. I still don't know.

The night I posted my first entry, Thursday, Feb. 22, 2007, the combination of fear and excitement left me feeling restless. While walking around campus the following day, I was nervous. Do these other students know about the blog? Do they know I had cancer twice?

The answer was a decisive no, since my blog is still in the four-digit hit range. And I'm pretty sure I'm not famous ... yet.

But I do have some loyal fans who seem to think fame is on the way. I hope they're right. So does my friend, who -- whether she admits it or not -- still wants to cash in on her $1 million.

Now you must ask yourself if you'd like to meet fame before it begins. Perhaps a young Keanu Reeves before "Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure," or Jared before the Subway diet?

If the answer is yes, then come read about my adventures at my Web site, "I've Still Got Both My Nuts: A True Cancer Blog."

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