Chemical Analysis

"I finished my chemical analysis of this plant that you call 'marijuana'," Moopa said, waking me up from a deep sleep. "And my conclusion is as follows: it's AWESOME! HAHAHAHA!"

Moopa left the bedroom, evil-laughing his way out to the kitchen. I was still sleepy, confused, lost. What day was this? What time? Why did Moopa wake me up so early? I... just... ugh.

Today is Thursday, day eight of the student strike. A heavy snow storm struck Montreal. I'm stranded at home. I am growing bored out of not working.

I can't imagine winning millions playing the lottery. I can't imagine not having to work to subsist. Don't get me wrong: we all want money and comfort in life, but it is first and foremost the feeling of accomplishment that gets me going.

When good fortune strikes, I want to feel like I deserve it. Otherwise it can't be very satisfying, can it?

I got up. Moopa had brewed coffee. I poured myself a cup. My friendly alien was staring out the window puffing his bong. "Moopa, you've got to be careful with this. Weed is great, sure, but it's a drug. Some people get so addicted to it that they can't function anymore."

Moopa turned to me. "You're right Peejay! I should just float here and spend hours wondering... mhh... I don't know... THE MEANING OF LIFE! WOUHAHA!"

Moopa had still so much to learn about humans, but needless to say he had picked up sarcasm pretty quick.

"Is that why you stopped smoking weed, Peejay?" Moopa asked. "You were addicted?"

Ignoring him, I took a tiny sip of my coffee, savouring each and every molecule, every hadron and every lepton. It was a perfect mix of coffee, sugar and soy milk. "No," I answered. "That was not the reason."

"Why did you quit, then?"

"The buzz weed creates, this buzz that you love so much... wasn't there anymore. It was like my body assimilated it. So I quit."

Moopa stared at me, clearly confused.

"Just be careful, Moopa."