So I’m still in Japan. Day 847. Or Day 6. Something like that. All the days blend together here because my nights and days are still mixed up and I haven’t slept more than 3 hours at a time and it all feels like I’m trapped in a weird Hunter S. Thompson story except that there are less drugs and more puddings that look like boobies and I spent the day disguised as a Japanese prostitute. Those links both take you to my satirical sex column, by the way, because they’re paying for all the really fucked up parts of this trip. Thanks, Eden Fantasys! Now my husband wants to divorce me for all the horrific places I’ve drug him in the name of being an “International Correspondent”. By the way, I think I got crabs from a Japanese sex house. Except it’s on my right hand…not my “special lady garden”, thank God. Can you get crabs on your hands? Because it itches like hell. It might be poison ivy. Or leprosy. Either way, my hand is probably going to fall off. I asked a doctor in a shop around the corner for something for it and he just shook his head and said something in Japanese which I’m pretty sure translates to “OMG that is totally crabs of the hand. Your hand is going to wither away and fall off. What, did you piss off a gypsy or something? You’re totally fucked.” Victor said he just didn’t speak English and was asking me to stop waving my hand in his face. Probably because I’ve got super-contagious-crab-hand and now they probably won’t let me back on the plane to come back to America. These are the things I think about at night when I’m not sleeping. That, and the fact that Japan is totally fucked up. And amazing beautiful. But slightly more fucked up. Like, in Japan you’re just walking down the street and this just happens:
Then someone tries to charge you $50 for this monstrosity:
And then you end up dressed as a Japanese courtesan:
Also, we almost got murdered in our beds one night by people who cut the lock off our door with bolt cutters at 2am. Victor says I should have lead with that. I think Victor should get his own damn blog and stop back-seat-driving me. I might just be grumpy though. I need sleep. And some Mexican food. You can’t find a chimichanga here to save your life. I could open a Taco Cabana here and make a fortune.
PS. When you ask for a taco here it means something completely different. I was all “Yay! Tacos! I LOVE TACOS!” and then they handed me the balls of a octopus. On a stick. What the fuck, Japan? Is there anything you won’t eat?
PPS. Victor says it’s called “octopus balls” because it’s in the shape of a ball, not because they’re actual octopus testicles. Apparently those are much more expensive. Good to know. I want to go home now.
Comment of the day: I can just imagine you opening a Taco Cabana in Japan. They’d be all “WTF? I ordered a taco and they gave me a big cracker with hamburger on it. There wasn’t any octopus in it at all.” ~ Steve