On society and why rich people are assholes...

First of all, this is funny and seems like it fits the context of the following rant: FUNNY

Second of all, in lacking a sufficient forum to express my rage, at least since my phone decided to remind me of how shitty it is by making it sound like the person on the other end is actually just bacon frying in a pan, I have decided to rage once again upon my poor, helpless, just-trying-to-survive-in-a-cruel-world-man, blog.

My editors over at the Oracle won't read this. Even if they do, I'm going to be leaving soon anyways.


So, thank god for sisters and their simple advice--see, I was laboring under the impression that I might be able to be more "active" this semester. Suffering such a pleasant fiction, I decided to take all my free time and actually give it up, for free, to the Oracle to compose the most hopelessly soul-sucking bits of writing I've ever subjected my imagination to.

See, had I spoken to my sister before all this folly of the last two weeks, perhaps she would have wisely informed me that my best course of action is quite simple really: Homework. Class. Eat. Sleep. Exercise. Repeat.


But noooooo.

I must prove my self worth! I must loose sleep to insure that I can get a good job and make lots of money and be desirable to women and have the things in life

Oh, excuse me for a moment while I go outside because of course the fire alarm would have to go off right now............




Okay, that was fun.

So where was I? Women like money or some conclusion like that.

Anyways, so the bulk of my anger comes from having just woken up after another short night to attend this

For anyone who is reading, James Watson invented DNA or something. So my editor told me to go buy a voice recorder and go to the lecture this morning. I wake and of course both of my roommates manage to get into the shower before me. Already running about twenty minutes behind schedule,
I hop on the two-wheel and peddle as fast as I can to Moffitt. I'm drenched by the time I find somewhere to lock up my bike.

So I get inside the building and there is a line of maybe 300 well dressed, well quaffed, well scrubbed medical types, all grumbling incessantly about how THEY should be allowed in.

I join the queue and begin grumbling to myself. The line moves. I check my recorder ($29.99 @ Target.) The line moves.

There is Watson, surrounded by a mob of adoring lab coats and entitled faces. He disappears behind the door. I'm like six people away from getting in when they announce, rather glibly, that the auditorium is full.

I stand in line for another half-hour because that's what everyone else is doing and...well...I'm still laboring under the impression that I might get in and actually be able to justify the $29.99 I spent on the recorder. Also, shit...I need the story. Somewhere in the back of my mind is a voice telling me that I can't let my editor down. Like she's going to cut me a check or something for being so fucking awesome.

I watch about 20 assholes in lab coats bustled past the line to the door and demand entry.

They get in. Something about interviewing Dr. Watson. I debate with myself whether I should announce to someone that I'm with the press and that I NEED to be in there too, even though I don't make six figures, drive a foreign SUV, or vacation somewhere that requires shots and vaccines.

Another thing---everyone in line smells amazing. Like they regularly bathe in honey and credit card receipts. I'm wearing a shirt I haven't put on since I was at Stetson, covered in sweat, hair all crazy from getting out of the shower and riding as fast as I could through the brisk early afternoon air.

The looks I get from the people standing in front of me. They can tell I'm not one of them. They can smell it. They can see the way I slouch, the way my eyes are still a little crusty from just having rolled out of bed not but an hour ago. I'm not crisp and well pressed like the yoga-instructor looking chick in front of me, or well trimmed and scrubbed like her boyfriend. I buy my soap at Dollar Tree. I'm hungry and tired and angry and self-conscious and still sweating like a action movie hero w/out an uzi or any basic military training. And Goddammit, I forgot to take my vitamins!

I turn around and leave. Fuck this shit. I have homework to do and angry blogs to write and fire alarm tests to participate in.

Is there a moral here?

I don't feel like there is. There is a reversal so maybe I'll package this post up and turn it in for Fiction homework. Maybe some good has come out of all of this afterall.




........NAAAAAAAH