It’s coming close to a year now that I ended my affair with marijuana. As refreshing, productive, and lucid as it is to be sober, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t miss it.

THC has the delightful ability to make everything better: music, food, girls, writing, riding the bus, doing the laundry. There are also things that can only be appreciated after a joint. You don’t see, hear, feel things the same way.

It turned into a lifestyle, a word I like to use because it sounds so much better than “addiction”.

Weekends were straight wake-and-bake, especially if there was a party, a camping trip, or some good old dim sum.

I was a complete light-weight too; it didn’t take much to have me floating for a night. As a result, one ounce of BC hydro would last me more than a year. An added bonus was that I never needed a dealer; there was always some convenient source through a friend of a friend. O Canada, land of the free, the Inuit, and the plentiful bud. I’m sure that Pierre Burton would agree.

Sessions were a habitual provider of great memories (from what my brain was actually able to retain). I still think of Darren at the wheel of the Civic, looking over at me and whispering “Vanilla Sky” as he’d taunt our mortality by letting the wheel drift the car into the oncoming lane. It was at once terrifying and invigorating, something you could only feel after a session in the park. Even a few of my favourite entries were either inspired by weed or written under the influence.

Food was also a big thing. Every meal was like nectar and ambrosia. I never really stopped eating over the course of the day, as I’d have food around me at all times. Pretty soon, I hit a satisfying all-time high (no pun intended) with my weight. Now that I’ve stopped, I lost it all. They won’t even let me donate blood anymore because I don’t meet the minimum weight requirements. This is what I looked like, circa early 2005, and this is what I looked like circa early weekend. How I miss the fullness of my face.

Sobriety is different. Everything is clearer, but toned down. Life gets evened out.

As much as I miss it, I won’t go back to smoking weed again. I had a hard enough time stopping in the first place, and the risk of getting addicted again isn’t worth it.

Instead of the racing ideas and inspiration from when I started, I turned into a zoned-out waste. I’d be completely useless when it came to talking or thinking. I stopped liking myself when I was stoned. My stomach felt like it was slowly digesting a sack of pebbles, and my throat became sore and dry. Even now, I still come across the odd stash of honey lozenges in the back of a drawer.

It was especially scary in the last few months when I could feel my tolerance building up. I was constantly chasing after that head-tripping peak from the early days, smoking more and more, but it’d never last longer than a half hour. The weed would help me sleep, and when I stopped I turned into an insomniac. For a while, the will to do anything eluded me because nothing was entertaining.

Now I’ve quit my vices altogether. No alcohol, no caffeine, nothing. Sobriety is underrated.

I know I’ll never go back to that time in my life, but I sure do miss it.

I’m not going to deny it anymore. It’s always been you. But I understand, you don’t need to explain, I get it. Work, our lives, we’re busy. You’re about to go off on a grand adventure. And I can see why you think that a relationship with me and that adventure are mutually exclusive but I just want to say my piece. Getting lost with each other could be the greatest adventure we’ve yet to embark on and I just want to say that if you want to get lost with me I’ll always be here perpetually lost without you.

I read his letters, some dated, some titled with expressions of forlorn hope. Familiar words that cut me to the bone.

They’re beautiful. I never knew he was capable of such poignancy, such emotion. It fills me with envy.

Sometimes I just want to be noticed. Not often, but sometimes late at night when I’m thinking about the “what-ifs” of the day. Being too obvious would be dangerous though and so I slink away, back to my cave to think, rather than do. Such a coward, I loathe myself. You’d say no, every rational scenario I’ve played out ends with that.

He’s trapped, perpetually lost in the thought of another. This time, I’m on the outside, looking in. It’s all new for him, and I can hear in his voice how much he detests it.

His angst is unbecoming. He’s not a writer, but he writes these letters, hoping the catharsis will save him. I’ve been here enough times to know that it’ll be alright, but that there’s also nothing I can do to help, so I resign myself to helplessness.

And now I’ll be pre-occupied and jealous for the rest of the weekend. Me, jealous and not trusting myself to speak, me. Not me, anymore. This love is like leprosy, pieces of myself are falling away. It’s ablative.

Yet his tone is so unfamiliar, so unlike him. Me, he writes, Not me, anymore. He doesn’t even believe it himself. The sanguine friend, reduced to an enfeebled state he wants desperately to cast aside. Even with the wisdom I’ve gained, it still surprises me how attraction, infatuation, love can make one so irrational.

In these letters he shares his feelings, wholly, as if to say, “Here is my heart. Please hold it gently”. The words would strip him bare if he spoke them to her, so he writes them where no one but me will read.

A prisoner, he lives in this cage, caught between the will and the risk of expressing to her how he feels.

A sense of hedonism has the better of me lately.

I remember feeling this way once. It was about five years ago, soon after I lost my grandmother and job in the same week. I’ve come to understand that such is a passing phase, and that I should simply enjoy such guilt-free things while it lasts.

As a result, I’ve been selfishly monopolizing Pat these last few weekends.

An exorbitant amount of pleasure comes from the motley assortment of foods he prepares.

Over the course of a few summers he perfected his grilling technique, and has now moved onto a mastery of cold salads. We have an agreement when it comes to practicing his cooking skills, where he gets a record of his consumable accomplishments, and in return I get a memorable meal and some great photos. He often mentions that he’ll have to join forces with Karen, an accomplished baker, to provide the desserts. Baking ability is something that’s admittedly eluded him, as he focuses on entrées.

The other, less tangible yet truly sublime form of pleasure comes from our conversations. Pat’s a person who listens and contributes to a topic in equal measure. Someone who doesn’t just wait for his turn to speak. As a result, I’m comfortable opening up to him, something that I shy away from with most other people.

Lately though, it’s clarity that I’ve been looking for. Too often, I over-analyze my life, and it’s no secret that my emotions affect me more than I’d like.

In the end, nothing clarifies and refreshes like a couple mugs of tea and some good conversation.

I’ve been hogging Pat these last few weekends, stealing him from the rest of his friends and family, but I don’t care.

Hedonism is the new rule, and I’m giving in with caprice.

I often explain to people that Karaoke to the Chinese is like drinking to the British. We don’t pour pints at our parties, we sing. It’s part of the culture. The Chinese-Canadian dream is a Toyota in every driveway and a Karaoke machine in every house.

My dad was no exception. Like all his hobbies, he took Karaoke seriously. He had singing lessons from a famous teacher. Sometimes, he would record himself and listen to the tapes to analyze his singing when driving me to school. We would never talk on those hour-long rides, I would only hear him singing, sometimes along with his recorded voice, sometimes practicing the parts that he didn’t have quite right.

When I was young, about seven, I would sing one of the English songs from his collection. I couldn’t tell you why. Karaoke didn’t particularly interest me. Maybe it was a way for me to be a part of his life. He had nothing to do with me otherwise.

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Not the grand prize, but I won the portrait category for my pictures of Chaos from Canada Day ’06, and Gerry from my Gerry Project.

Our judges had their hands full. With close to 100 entries, and photos of everything from penguins to crocodiles to war veterans and other UCC luminaries, it wasn’t an easy decision to compare these apples and oranges. Ultimately, the judges decided that technique and content counted in equal measure.

To create as fair a judging process as possible, names, grade, and graduation years were left off the photos, and replaced by a number. That way, current students and Old Boys all had an equal shot. (To ensure no judge was swayed by the opinion of another, each wrote down his or her favourite number, with no prior discussion.)

It was a blind judging, and as a result, my two photos tied with each other for first place without the judges knowing that they were both from one person. Not bad for the first photography contest I entered.

Seeing my pictures in print is great, but winning isn’t the important part.

Being recognized for the pictures was a nice little bonus.