I have a confession to make. It’s the kind of confession that you normally wouldn’t bring up in mixed company, or with people you don’t know very well, but the blank buffer of cyberspace gives me enough false courage that I can talk openly. The whole thing happened a number of months back, but my conscience has been dogging me ever since. I’ve tried to justify the experience by telling myself things like, “But you didn’t know!” or “You were just being polite!”, but in the end these soothing excuses amount to nothing more than a bucket of fail. No one forced me to do it, I did it of my own accord.
I ate a lobster. I ate a lobster while it was still alive.
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When we first set off to live in Japan, five to ten years sounded like a good amount of time to spend battling robots and learning to be ninja. However, angry robots are a bit thin on the ground, and stealthy is hard to come by when you stick out like a sore thumb. And so, after three and a half years of ramen and karaoke, it is time to say farewell.
My mom always told me that you wake up one day and you *just know*. You know that the cycles of love-hate are no longer dialectic but circular, the horse has been beaten, the pigs are flying… whatever metaphor floats your boat. Okay, so we didn’t exactly rub the sleep from our eyes and reach for the suitcase, but close enough. Not to mention I really can’t stand Japanese beer.
And since beer (and whiskey) is the elixir of life, we’ve decided to head to Canada, land of beer, beer, and something called hockey, which must be a sport fishermen play. And while I’m excited about the beer, I’m worried about retrofitting my computer to the telegraph system used by the citizens, not to mention learning the language.
{ fin }