I'll stand up right here in front of all the world and admit it. I'm a sushi junkie.
It's funny, but as I wrote that I was reminded of a really poorly drawn "Say No to Drugs" comic book attempt that was handed out to my 2nd-grade Catholic school class of sheltered 8-year-olds. We leafed through it at recess trying to figure out the big words like mariuana (some girl's name, probably the bleary red-eyed girl who kept talking about a "hit." Hitting was bad, we knew that. We guessed she was the bully.) and heroin (the hero, also a girl).
But my drug of choice these days is sushi. I started experimenting with it a few months ago and now I can't get the sushi monkey off my back. There's a supermarket down the street that deals, and they make it cheap, plentiful, fresh, and tasty.
I think about it all the time. Even after I've just scored and I'm dipping the last piece into a bit of wasabi, I'm already planning the next run.
For a while, I toyed with the idea of making my own sushi. It can't be that hard. Others have done it. But is that a bit too much like setting up a meth lab in my basement? Will the next step in the downward spiral involve renting a trailer to hold all the equipment and the austere, finely laquered Japanese-style serving dishes? Will the government start tracking my movements due to unusually large purchases of eel and salmon?
It's a sickness.
It's about to get worse, too. There are plans to open a new sushi bar just minutes from work.