Later, Steven and Heath stroll pensively together across the quad, the former clinging to a newly acquired copy of The Bible and the latter clinging to an existentialism text. Steven's face is tilted toward the sky and the sweet heavenly angels therein, while Heath stares at the ground at the filth with which he now equates himself. Shaggy skips over, oblivious to the winds of change blowing his friends' skirts up around their waists. "Saturday night, we're totally throwing it down at the Poochy Party Palace," he pants. Heath cringes. "Did you ever think that maybe the entire way you looked at the world was wrong?" he wonders, wounded. Shaggy chews on this. "Oh, yeah, man, I used to be a Goth guy," he answers, still out of breath. "Met this chick with black fingernails, and totally, like, pale, so hot...turned out to be an Albino. Anyway, you guys want to get a keg?" Heath bursts into tears. "I don't know anything anymore," he whimpers. Oh, man, but beer shouldn't make you cry. That's just wrong. Beer is love. I just helped put down a half-case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and I can't for the life of me prove that the liquor store clerk didn't piss in every single can of that terrifying liquid venom, but you don't see me crying. Steven says nothing. He hasn't had time to ask Jesus what he'd do. Shaggy waves them off. "It's okay, I'll figure it out," he decides, sprinting off down the quad.
Larice is sitting at her desk, trying to get homework done while her roommate Suzuki plays the violin. She's excellent, and it's a lovely song, but its sharp high notes clearly rankle Larice. She rubs her forehead and prays for a broken string or five. Suzuki finishes and looks perplexed. "How was that?" she asks. "It was perfect," Larice says in monotone. "Every note was flawless." Suzuki scowls. "It was flat," she snaps. "I can do better." Every single vein in Larice's body pops out of her skin. "You have played the same song five times in a row, and the song is forty-seven minutes long," she says through gritted teeth. She wants Suzuki to stop, but Suzuki shrugs that this is her homework, and starts playing again. Larice shoots her a stink-eye straight from the Bog of Eternal Stench.
Bollywood music plays inside the Poochy Party Palace. The room has red walls, a red paper lantern, some floor pillows, lava lamps, and bean-bag chairs. It's a meditation room done up K-Mart style. "This place is the best," Shaggy says adoringly. Rachel leans back in her chair. "I could live in here," she says in ecstasy. "It's so soothing, like all pressure melts away when I'm in here." Shaggy decides that he agrees with her, because that's usually an on-ramp to the sweaty, groping Highway to Booty. "Uh, me too," he says, sitting down next to Rachel and eyeing her hungrily. "It's like nobody wants anything from me," Rachel continues. Shaggy's pants wilt. His eyes dart around uncomfortably. "Exactly," he says without conviction. "I don't want anything." But he's still gazing at her like she's a corn dog. She heaves her pushed-up boobs. Shaggy excitedly talks about how great their party is going to be, but a knock at the door interrupts their rapture.