Sometimes, a second-hand compliment is better than a first-hand one. It means that there’s something the compliment giver doesn’t want one to know, as if it’s a weakness. Of course, one should always question how someone comes across this information, and their motives for letting one know what others may consider a secret that can be used against a person.

I switched from day-old crème brûlée to calorie and sugar-free sparkling summer peach beverage. The weekend usually has me drinking various combinations of liquids, including honey water and coffee with half and half. It’s difficult to understand how normal it becomes to alternate between drinks while under the right influences, like only being able to take a swig from a bottle of vodka during a hangover. Sobriety makes the senses aware.

This place has become sick and uninspired. I miss living at Lees, with the edge of the downtown core, as well as my university, out my 8th floor window. I do have a nicer view here, especially since I’m living on the 16th floor now, but it’s not on my side of the apartment. What I see is mostly construction, aggravating colours, and unmatching wood grains. I put on different movies to absorb their moods.The raw, open-air feeling of 12 Monkeys. The emotional, effusive settings of the everyday in Bleu. The psychedelic adventures of Army Captain Benjamin Willard through the humid jungles of Vietnam in Apocalypse Now. Nothing ever works.

I can’t wait to move. I can’t wait to give my room the perfect mood. I can’t wait to get a nice, sleek desk. I can’t wait to create three perfect levels of lighting. I can’t wait to have a place where I can completely relax, surrounded by the comfortable feeling of a well furnished room.

I pointed out the only cute one to Shirley, and she teased me about it for the rest of the night. I only chose her because she had those glasses and that look. She was the type before I discovered discovered that I have no type. Almost every time something like this happens, I realize that they’re almost twice my age, and I wonder if there’s anything wrong with me. The other guys I know feel guilty cause they talk to girls who are sometimes 10 years younger than them. I feel guilty cause I catch myself flirting with women who are more than 10 years older than me. I feel even more guilty when they decide to wear their ornamented engagement rings when wedding bands would be more appropriate, or when they show me pictures of their kids.

In almost all my relationships, it feels like I’ve been waiting for my girlfriend to catch up. The only one who seemed to be on par or perhaps ahead, was simply fucking nuts. To me, the only saving grace was a mix of open-minded vulnerability and the ability to channel this vulnerability into change, but most had one but not the other. Perhaps I’m biased in believing that a woman, not a girl, would have enough strength and experience to posses the proper mix of both. I realize that I’m probably usually wrong in this belief because most of the older men and women that I know are still very blissfully ignorant, and have become too old to change their ways (and this fact was a cause of a lot of my previous loss of faith in humanity). Every now and then though, there’ll be one woman who stands out because I can read her like a book.

And she’ll be enough to keep my faith alive.

A photo of Lisa, lying on Trolley’s bed, treating her surface piercing with salt water after a mid-day burn. The light was already coming through the window, but the smoke made the individual rays distinguishable. I’m pretty satisfied with the way the colours turned out, although the picture doesn’t really capture how much darker the rest of the room was. Definitely a very particular mood, like being under a flourishing tree on a sunny summer day, with the cool feeling of grass underfoot.

Lisa is one of those people with which one can spend time without having to worry about running out of things to say. She can do enough talking to keep a conversation going, so as long as the vibe is right, there are no awkward silences. She gave me a super for the first time, and I could barely move afterwards (although this is also partially be due to the hydro I graciously got through Adam). It was a little scary to feel so out-of-control, but everything was comfortable enough for me to keep it together. I was peaking for more than an hour straight, something I hadn’t experienced since I first started, what Scarface would call, “back in the day”.

It’s always interesting to meet someone from a totally different group of stoners. Each group has their own style, rituals, etiquette. One can tell a lot from how someone rolls, how long they take before passing, how carefully they correct runs, or simply how they act when they’re under the influence. The session becomes a way for people to share their traditions with others, to discover the characters of people that may otherwise remain hidden behind the guard put up in everyday life. By taking part, one becomes open in letting others know that one is comfortable enough to even act out of character.

Sometimes it feels like I’m waiting for inspiration when I write. Like I’m waiting for a specific mood, or a specific song to come on and guide me through an entry. Lately, that inspiration seems to avoid me. I keep trying to write about things that I feel I should write about, instead of the things I want to write about. Every time I search my head for the proper mood or mindset, it’s only memories that appear.

And they surface like photographs, each one a still frame capturing an experience, expressed in sound, warmth, light, and odour. I’m on the streets of Hong Kong again, surrounded by people, browsing through the knick-knacky stores with the heat of the sun soaking through my shirt. I’m skating on the Canal, mapping the imperfections of the ice as I glide across them, the night sky burning with the orange of winter. I’m wondering through the mall of my hometown, enjoying the strange familiarity of a place I frequented so long ago, hoping I don’t bump into an ex. I’m in uniform, clutching the lapels of my blazer, as I step out from the heat of grandiose wooden doors into the snow-washed quad. I’m on the bus to New York, trying to figure out which passengers are coming or going, wondering where my own journey would take me.

I fight against these memories, trying to write about something more relevant. In the end, I write about nothing, and I can’t fight against it anymore. I have to write the things I want, inspired by the things I think. I have to let go one more time.

From myself, instead of others.