Miracle on Rice

I am everything Sushi is not.

To be candid, I can barely find my pants in the morning.  There are ketchup packets in my bathroom and I often run into the middle of busy streets without looking.  Matching my socks is a profound sartorial achievement.  I’ve broken two work-desk drawers in the last year.  There are 18 light bulb sockets in my apartment right now, and only two currently host a working bulb.  My 2008 tax returns are still wedged underneath my pantry cart, and I burn my feet whenever I make pasta.

In other words, I am not graceful.  Or elegant, well-composed, balanced, organized, attractive or at all formal. Throw in the fact that I typically don’t care for fish, and you’ll perhaps understand my surprise when the words “we should make sushi” slipped out of my mouth.
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