At the eleventh hour, I finally decided to make the three thousand mile trek back home, eyes be damned. The day of my Christmas flight, I packed my mismatched socks and my various bottles of prescription eyedrops into a suitcase. Then I put on my Ronnie James sunglasses and went down to the street to make one last-minute holiday shopping trip around the city.

I’d assumed that once the doctors at Coal Harbour Eye Centre gave me the miracle gift of glasses-free sight, I would rain gifts down upon my friends and loved ones. But after seven days in the dark trying to stave off bouts of despair (and eating ice cream, which always helps stave off despair), I’d turned into the Scrooge of Gastown. I walked down the street practically scowling at anyone who seemed to be making merry. If Tiny Tim had crossed my path that day, I would have beaten in his skull in with his tiny crutch.

I hadn’t really realized how far away I was from being in the holiday spirit until my phone rang one morning earlier in the week. I’d squinting at the display screen, not recognizing the number. Craving contact with the outside world, I answered anyway. “Hello?” I said. It was a representative from the Royal Bank of Canada. The lady wanted to know if I was interested in taking a customer survey regarding my banking relationship with RBC. “GODDAMN IT ALL, YOU PEOPLE CALL ME ALL THE GODDAMN TIME!” I shouted into the phone. Which was true; they did call me all the time. “STOP CALLING ME! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. SHIT!” After delivering a few more lines of this nature, I realized what I was doing and started apologizing. “I’m so sorry, I know you’re just trying to do your job. Happy holidays to you and yours,” I said, then hung up the phone.

I was shopping that morning for a gift for my mother, the only person on my Christmas list who absolutely could not be ignored. My girlfriend advised me to buy her a bit of Aboriginal/First Nations jewelry from one of the tourist-y, Aboriginal/First Nations jewelry stores in Gastown. I entered one of the shops, the welcome bell jangling above my head like a fairy. The air was stuffy and claustrophobic in the shop. There were mirrors and bright lights everywhere. I peered into a nearby case at the jewelry inside, my face so close to the protective glass that I could smell the Windex.

I spotted what looked to be an attractive necklace made from a jewel that shimmered like an oil slick. “That’s Ammolite,” the Chinese lady behind the counter said. “Very nice. Very nice.”

I asked her the price. “Only $1,100!” she said. “Very good price! Keepsake!”

I felt foolish for even being interested in this goddamn thing. I had no idea that these jewels, which the lady informed me are found on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, would be so pricey. Still, in situations like this, I’m always tempted to throw money at the problem, then figure it out later. I’d wind up eating Kraft dinner–see how Canadian I’ve become, people?–every night for the next six months in order to get my finances straightened out. But I could leave the store right now and this shopping trip could be over right now, if only I was willing to pull out my wallet and give this woman $1,100.

“I think I’m going to keep looking,” I said, and squinted off in a new direction.

I squinted at more objects and jewels, with the weight of this unpleasant task growing by the second. I wished with all my heart that it would somehow be over, not because I don’t love my mother, but because even under the best of circumstances I’m not the greatest shopper. I hate the pressure of having to buy something for someone. This is what I hated most about the holidays–this pressure to spend money to relieve the burden of it all.

With time running out–I had to get to the airport soon–I finally settling on a pair of earrings that were most definitely not made of Ammolite, and that no one would probably ever use the word “keepsake” to describe. The counter lady, who no doubt thought she’d smelled an Ammolite sale on me, boxed up the earrings with disdain. I headed home, grabbed my suitcase and my various carry-on bags–one of which, as you know, would soon be lost–and made my way to the Skytrain station.

Yes, people, it’s time for level 1-5. An otherwise typical three-tiered structure of ladders and girders is separated by a menacing chasm of pointy, death-dealing triangles. The door, where D.K. is holding Pauline, is located on the top right girder; the oversized key is on the top left. Only two enemies patrol the area–a mouse and a fireball with eyes–but they are both very quick. Both move at a good clip, and both can travel along the underside of girders, as well as the very top/roof area of the level. No, the laws of gravity do not apply to these two.

The bridge-invoking power-up introduced yesterday during the animated cutscene is, of course, what I’ll need to use to cross the chasm. It has a pair of arrows etched on its side, each arrow pointing in opposite directions. I bump into the power-up for the first time. A cheery, MIDI keyboard song begins to play, indicating that the bridge power-up, like the hammer-time hammer, can be used only for a limited amount of time.

The bridge power-up truly feels powerful, namely because I can place it almost anywhere on the screen. I can use it to cross the bottom, middle, or upper tier of girders, or I can drop it at some random, completely useless location, just for kicks. It’s all up to me, and I like that. I like it when games give you a power, then allow you to use said power in a completely useless fashion.

After accessing the layout of bonus objects onscreen–there’s a sombrero, a ring, and an umbrella to covet here–I map out my route to the key, which, naturally, is the most circuitous route imaginable. I don’t mind. This is my sole Donkey Kong level for the day and I’d like it to last as long as possible.

The speedy mouse and the fireball will also use the bridge, should they encounter it in their travels. In fact, both happen to be on the bridge when the MIDI keyboard song stops playing and the bridge vanishes. Both fall to their deaths into the pointy triangle pit of doom. At least, that’s what I am hoping will happen. Instead, after wiggling their feet for a few seconds, both right themselves and continue on their way, a moment that disappoints me. Why couldn’t you two just die? I wonder.

I grab the key, make a spectacular jump over an oncoming mouse (small pat on the back there for me), reach the door, and enter. That’s the end of level 1-5. Level 1-6: I’m coming for you.