But they should have known. If Twitter and Facebook can bring down military dictators in North Africa, after all, even as established and connected a charity as Komen is relatively small potatoes.

Does it even matter that Komen has no relationship to the pink gun that surfaced on the Internet? The fact that people had no trouble believing they were linked tells you how big their PR problem is.

I’m an ovarian cancer survivor, and have never been a Komen fan. The whole “pinktober” phenomenon lost me at the pink buckets of fried chicken.

Let’s just say the entire hot mess of pink marketing was a giant turnoff for me…

Read my entire “She the People” column at The Washington Post: Komen, Go Back to Your Roots.

According to results of two international clinical trials, published last week, the drug Avastin (aka bevacizumab) can interfere with blood vessel growth, and thereby slow disease progression in ovarian cancer patients.

For three months. Three and a half, actually…

Read the entire post at Washington Post: Ovarian cancer drug fail (and that’s the good news?)

Since You Asked @ Salon

Late last night, I came across a post in Salon’s advice column Since You Asked: I’m a successful book editor but I hate my job. The subhead: My wife is leaving me but I can’t feel anything. I’m depressed. My life is falling apart. How do I reinvent myself?

As a writer myself, I was curious to see what advice Cary Tennis — usually kind and thoughtful — would give. This instance was no exception.

Despite the late hour, I felt the urge to chime in, a rare event (it is, after all, writing for free). The responses ran the gamut from encouragement to chastisement. I could see both points of view, but I try to err on the side of empathy.

Yes, nature is good for the soul. Cooking. Gardening. Taking walks. Also, reading history books. I remember a book on Stalingrad. One reviewer commented that he would never, ever complain about his life again.

Back to nature. At sundown, I grab my camera and take pictures. I too am a writer, and I too grow tired of words. Some people go to church on Sunday, but I spend hours getting lost in clouds and colors and composition.

Last spring, my writing job was eliminated. I loved that job, and I was sick about losing it. But I’ve been sicker. In 2001 I got ovarian cancer. Horrible survival odds, but somehow I made it. Every morning, I wake up and say, “Today, I’m alive.”

I’m ten years out now, but I still say it. It’s still true. The cancer could come back. But even if it does, I got my ten years. Ten springs. Ten summers. Ten autumns. And lots of snow. Every winter I’d watch it come down, transfixed (that’s the Texan in me).

I, too, worry about the economy, but the worst that could happen is poverty. Poor, I’ll still have the sky. I’ll have music. I’ll have books. Friendship. My own thoughts. A utopia of the mind.

Most people have to do something for a living. Clerical work is the worst, and it sounds like you have a lot of that in your job. If I had to get a job tomorrow, I’d look for a pleasant place with windows. That would rule out many jobs right there.

You don’t really have to “build” a life. All you have to do is wake up each day and say: I’m here. We’re not here for very long, after all.

My grandmother died at age 100. By then her body was falling apart, but she wasn’t ready to go. Despite her reduced state, she liked waking up in the morning. She liked hearing things, seeing things. In my darkest moments, I remember how she’d grab my and hand and squeal with delight at a sunset, or at flowers blooming impossibly late in the season.

This year I planted Morning Glory for the first time. They were a gorgeous blue — gentle, but intense. I don’t know how they do that. But I think they’ve got the right idea.

On the other hand, the man might simply be a “miserable asshole.” Perhaps this caustic reply comes closer to the mark.

Christie Buckner, 1970-2009

It is still September. It is still Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month. Our color is not pink. Our color is teal.

My friend Christie Buckner died at age 39. My April 2010 post about her on Politics Daily prompted so many reader letters that I wrote a followup quoting from them.

Christie, somewhere there’s a memorial bench with your name on it. A woman who lost her 33-year-old daughter to cancer was impressed with your story. She never knew you, but she concluded that her late daughter “would be proud” to share her bench with you.

Here’s to you, Christie.

The Silent Killer Takes Out a Woman Who Would Not Shut Up

Christie Buckner was an ordinary woman, so the world took little notice of her death on October 1, 2009….

Christie Buckner, They Oughta Name a Drink After You

In the end, all Christie really had was herself. That, it turned out, was enough….