Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.



First off. What I found at the grocery store today. I'll let you know what it tastes like.

Secondly, with the evening off, I thought I'd do something reasonably intelligent, like do my sociology homework. Basically, read the next chapter in our textbook. The further into this class I get, the more I loathe it. The book begins each chapter with a little excerpt/summary of an important, current sociological book. Inevitably, the books center around the same topic; "poor people get the shaft, and you people rich enough to get college educations should feel guilty about it."

Now, I'd like to think that today's college students, while young, were not born into bubbles. If nothing else, they've at least seen poor people before. And if they're so gullible as to buy into the crap this textbook is hawking, I weep for our future.

Maybe I'm biased, because not only did I have a life before I came to school, but I grew up in a family where being poor wasn't something to be written about, it simply was. For a while, everyone else was poor too. But they didn't hold it against you if you tried to do better for yourself or your family. Maybe the people who get paid (ridiculous sums) to pontificate about how much it sucks to be poor, and how awful everyone else is, should try making it on nothing for a while.

And when I say "make it on nothing for a while" I mean at least a year, without some fucking savings account or help from your rich husband, Barbara Ehenreich. Or making a movie, or TV show out of it (I'm looking at you, Spurlock), or writing a damn book about how miserable we should all be.

I know I'm not as coherent as I should be, but this book/class seriously chaps my ass. If it had some sort of bearing on my future, even in the most minute of fashions, I'd shut up. But it doesn't. I'd be better served in a cultural diversity class- unfortunately, I'm forced to take this twaddle, taught by a woman who serves as a prime example of dysfunction, using a textbook that makes USA-Today seem like Proust.


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