So the website of online randomness is back up again; for those of you who know and love (or despise and wish to crush) it, the black and white online home of the Schnorng is now at
http://home.uchicago.edu/~zhien - don't forget the tilda! We love tildas. For those of you who are looking at my blog through my website, well, that's just bizarro-worldo. Bizarro-worldo, says I! Fucknuts.

I would be upbeat and flippant, but there's too much heaviness in the air. I'm probably the only person who senses it, but I know in my gut that this is when it begins - the honeymoon is over, the fear is beginning to set in; it's like I've been high for far too long, and now the coming down is starting - all these familiar faces seem to take on sinister undertones, and my social paranoia takes over; what if all these people actually HATE me? The claims validate themselves in my mind, till I'm left with no doubt in my mind whatsoever - I cannot understand these people, and they all wish I would stop pestering them with my trifling concerns or bizarre notions of reality.

I know where all this leads, too - back down to the depths of depression, back to my fist bleeding and broken over no reason whatsoever, back to being maladjusted, unhappy, miserable even - I have to stop the slide somehow. I have to push the thin end out of the door, to make things right.

I'm trying, I really am. Honest.

At about 6.00pm on a Saturday night, you realise that your weekend is going to be like every other weekend so far - utterly, hopelessly, ridiculously unproductive.

You stumble to the bathroom, wiping the sleep away from your eyes, berating yourself for too many late nights, too many drunken frenzies, too many substances in too short a time. The mirror is scummy as you realise that it's your turn to clean the toilet, but you simply don't give a fuck. You stare, bleary-eyed at yourself and realise that it's been a while since you really took the time to ask questions about that hung-over blob in the mirror. Why is he looking quite so...fucked up? Then again, he has every right to be fucked up - he's done all he needs to - he's on top of his work, fulfilled his major social obligations and, on top of all this, he's having a blast. Why SHOULDN'T he look fucked up on a Saturday evening?

The cold water runs down your face onto your neck and you feel, for half a second, briefly alive.

Wallet, lighter, cigs, phone. It's going to be a long night.

Everyone is going out to play
There are no more
Fairies in
My Courtyard.
You suck worse than I do - too much is lost in
Darkness!
Onward, you lily-livered pookies!
Before I trample you underfoot and
Destroy
All your
Mushroon gardens!
Let me just state,
For the record,
That you really need to button up.
I don't want to see any of that shit! Fuck you too!
Give me my money back you bitch.
But don't overdo it
Before I
Run away
For today
And for tomorrow!
It is a long weekend in a boring state
Of being.
Don't pay any attention
To
My
Rambling.

Finishing all your shit is supposed to be an all-round good thing. In my experience, however, it is a downright poopy thing, because all it means is that you sit around staring at your walls and wondering what the fuck there is to do. This sucks, and is the reason why I decided it would be a good idea to take 6 classes. In the end, everything has worked out, except now I've finished all my shit and am staring at my walls again, and this sucks.

You suck, I suck, but then again, wait, you suck.

There are a whole bunch of people I strongly dislike; if you think I like you, there's a 87.623% chance that I actually strongly dislike you. I'm full of dislike - I would say hate, but I'm too lazy to hate people. I'm not above the occasional bitch though. There's a 99.876% chance that, if I know you, I've bitched about you to someone, especially if I'm real nice to you. If I'm a real bastard to you all the time, though, chances are I actually love you to bits and am trying to work my way through a headfuck. I just thought I'd set things straight.

Anyway, what else? Ah yes, the abject lack of comments. I figure that all these cheap plugs for comments aren't working; the 'I'm not going to write till someone comments' thing is getting kind of old as well, so I figure that I might as well just fuck it and write whenever I fucking feel like it. Screw everyone else, anyway. Fuck!

What else is there to say? Ah yes...fuck.