And so here we begin again, the unproductive cycle, repeating on itself like the coiled garden snake. Right now, I should be reading something; Marx, probably; there are always a million and one better things to do. I would explain something breathtaking right now, but there's nothing to be said, or rather, there's no will to say it. Words are hard for me, they choke at the stomach, or even before that, where they form, coagulated, only to trickle out in an ephemeral pus. I get carried away in my images, and they envelop me.

Rishi has commented recently that I now seem 'perma-fried'; I disagree; I do, however, think that I may be a little off as far as the sanity department is concerned. I feel estranged, not in a Marxian way, but in an out-of-body-experience sort of way; perhaps I need to lay off on the recreational drugs or something.

Now it's official; I've lost my train of thought. Hello.

What does one do when he has all the work in the world and no time to do any of it? The answer, it naturally follows, is sit on one's ass and abuse random substances. This is not a direct representation of my life, far from it - after spending half an hour schooling the chicago white boys in the finer arts of electronic soccer, I've moved on to more noble pursuits - I sit trying to pull my latest blog entry from my ass, to inflict it on my semi-tolerant audiences while dreaming of the cigarettes that are now in my pocket.

I've signed up for a quit smoking class; it promises to be interesting; I've always wanted to be in a peer support group, rallying against the evils of nicotine or some other random poision. I've only gone for the orientation so far, but I'm fairly optimistic about my chances of giving up the cigarettes eventually.

What else is there to write about? I picked up the phone today and made the inevitable call. It went well, I suppose; what is there to expect from these things? I'm not supposed to be feeling this way, I'm sure - but then again, things get too complicated too fast, and what are we to do? It is all ridiculous. Perhaps I should just cop out and insert some of my pre-written verse; it's not very good, though, so maybe I won't.

I'm obviously rambling; this is enough.

After several false starts, I've finally sat down to write a hasty journal entry - it's 1 AM on what should be a monumental day of my life; I started it with a cigarette in the cool autumn air, and now I'm off to do some calculus. Life has been good these 21 years; it could have been worse, I must say.

Thanks to my best Stanford buddy and my best Singapore girl in Chicago for remembering; thanks to everyone else for just being my friends. I love you guys.

I have been away far too long, in my humble opinion. I know most of you have 101 better things to do than to read my shit, but hey, I enjoy inflicting myself on all of you, and I like the reassurance that I have a voice. The question is, do I?

So, apparently, I've gotten stuck with a bit of a reputation - I am now a 'pimp'; why this is so is beyond me; hanging out with girls is hardly a reason for people to believe that I'm getting any. From now on, I'm going to make 'proud member of J Schnorng's harem' T-shirts, just so I can be in the loop about all these girls I'm allegedly getting. If you're one of my many mysterious sex slaves, could you please notify me so I can possibly get some action? Thanks a bunch!

Moving on, I'm still battling my silly nicotine addiction (though, considering college lifestyles, nicotine should be pretty far down on my list of substances to be worried about); it's going ok, I suppose - life without cigarettes is kind of trying from time to time, though, and this is allegedly bad. Yes.

What else can I say now? Oh yes, I can appeal to all my friends to email me, because I love you guys. Ok, to be honest, I don't really love all of you, and am, in fact, mildly annoyed by a good deal of you, but all the rest of you, please drop me a line to tell you you're still alive. Hurrah!