ja_koniga

This afternoon I had to take photographs of cancer tissue, an experience I'm likely not to forget.  I feel itchy thinking about it because I imagine that at least five or so of the enormous moles from my back will end up in a tissue block and then photographed by a blonde exclaiming, "EWWWW!"  

 I arrived to the science lab about an hour late because I was driving up and down Wasatch Lane thinking it was Wakura Lane.   I think I saw I a 'W' on the street sign and assumed I had found the correct street and then spent the next half hour explaining to my co-worker how Google Maps had really let me down.   Once we had arrived I rushed into the lobby feeling flustered, my mind racing between different lies and scenarios that could explain why I was late.  It was at that moment that the receptionist checking me in asked if I could verify my employer, or to provide some kind of identification, before letting me through steel barriers protecting what must be an atomic bomb.

To that question I answered, "I have a cell phone?"

Really?  That was the best answer I could come up with?  I have a cell phone.  But what a great idea, my phone should totally be an ID card.

Ken: No.

Awkward Silence

Ken: It’s just, I’m really stressed out and sometimes when I get stressed out I just want to eat chocolate and ice cream. And you haven’t been talking to me lately, and I understand that you’re not feeling well and all, but that stresses me out so I need these ice cream bars.

SML: I’ve been talking to you.

Ken: Yeah, but not really.

Awkward Silence

SML: Okay.

While SML was picking out the face soap, I mentioned something like, “I think I’ll bleach my hair!” I picked up a box of Feria Bleach Blonding and held one eye on SML waiting for him to say, “Don’t you dare!”

Instead he said, “Yeah! You should do it!”

SML is generally my voice of reason and without him I’d be stuffing my chimney with cheesecake every night at Gourmandies. I’m very serious about that because if it’s not every night, it’s nearly every night that I say, “Let’s get cake!” I’m somewhat moody and irritable when SML declines, and it can take several hours before I remember instructing him to always suggest protein shakes over bypass surgery.

Most of my decisions should be followed with a signed Authorization of Release because I cannot, under any circumstance, place blame on myself. Didn’t SML know that my hair would turn GOLD if I bleached it? Immediately after I had washed the dye from my hair, I had to shield my eyes and squint to see myself in the mirror because the glare from my hair was like watching a nuclear explosion from two feet away.

I’m going to end this post by explaining how generally kind the population is in Salt Lake City. Nobody has really said anything about how shockingly unnatural my hair looks or how helicopters are mistaking me for a landing pad. The only things said resembled, “Call this stylist. I think he can help you.”

I answered, “No...I’m actually just trying to break into my apartment.”

I’ve written about the laundromat before; about the awfulness of washing your private things in front of obese and half-retarded men. It’s not at all comforting to see a wrinkly old man’s bare ass behind the dumpster, either, as he’s changing his clothes for the day and then opening a 24-pack of Bud Light to share with his friend. I’ve come to equate this kind of behavior with the laundromat, and have since decided it’s no longer necessary to wear underwear on laundry day.

But even that isn’t fair; to blame it on the laundromat. Who do I blame for the man who pokes around the dumpster behind my apartment building, or the so-called veterans littering State Street? There’s an actual spot on Main Street, just between the Coffee Garden and a demolition crew where I cannot even breathe; because if I did the smell of urine and feces, emanating from an entire community of homeless people, would surely burn into my lungs and persist to carry it’s residue every time I exhale.

I must sound like a complete asshole, but in all sincerity I feel like I this is a growing problem. And I feel like I’m the only person that’s noticed the rise in homeless people in Salt Lake City, because I literally cannot go anywhere without being panhandled by someone smelling like ass. God, I hate this place.

Ichiban is located downtown in an old church that reminds me of all of the religious things I’m missing out on: Vaulted ceilings and stained glass. We sat outside because we feel uncomfortable inside anything that even used to be a church.

Once seated on the patio I ordered about six different pieces nigri sushi. I felt brave doing that, because I only know one person who can eat sushi like this and now I’m not totally sure he has taste buds. I’ve only really had nigri sushi once before and if I remember correctly, I was very intoxicated and waiting for someone to carry me to the car. That sentence explains a lot about me in general because I really only try new things when I have no idea what’s going on.

Once our meal arrived, I ate the first couple of pieces without a problem until I got to the fourth piece which felt like I was eating chicken fat rolled in slime. I say felt because I don’t even want to remember the taste, because the immediate gagging reflexes I had after putting that nigiri piece in my mouth was close to the reflexes I had having food poisoning or smelling someone else’s thick and corn-filled throw-up.

I held the food in my mouth for a considerable amount of time because I couldn’t even imagine spitting out something that cost nearly $3.00. I thought very seriously of trying to stomach it anyway because spitting it out would mean total defeat when SML uses the event in the future as the number one reason never to eat sushi. Or to take me anywhere public.

When I did finally spit the contents of my mouth into a napkin I told SML, “We can go to McDonald’s after this.”