I feel the earth move under my feet, just like Carol King said.

Okay first, don't be jealous, but there's something I have to tell you.

Not only does my current toilet come installed with a bidet, it also has a seat warmer.

Enough said.

Second, this whole earth quake situation has me mildly freaked out. Well, if the realization that you really can do nothing about it but you're still apprehensive can be called freaked out.

See, the thing is, I got it the first time, Japan. If you're trying to impress a girl from Pennsylvania with your ability to roll up the earth and make it seem like it's not ground at all, consider your goal achieved.

And really, some might say that three quakes in four days might be overkill. Like you're overcompensating. Are you thinking I might not notice how much of your sushi is slathered in mayonnaise if you keep the ground fluid? Are you thinking that a little tremble beneath my feet will keep me from running to the bathroom and spitting that mayo-slathered-sushi out?

If so, you're wrong.

Cause I will not eat mayonnaise in a quake; I will not eat it in a lake; I will not eat it Japan-I-Am; I will not eat it anywhere.

But moving on. And trusting God that I will make it back to America in one piece. And still moving on.

I am exhausted. Completely drained. I have done four shows in 24 hours and have yet another matinee tomorrow. I got five hours of sleep last night and my show shoes feel like they simply must be mistaken for something else because surely those torture devices could not have been intended to actually be worn; not by a blue-blooded and voting American, not in a democracy, not by someone who naively thinks they are ideal for not only standing but also dancing.

Seriously, the pain in my feet have reminded me once again how awfully a foot can ache. On the break, I had sort of forgotten about all of that, which was nice.

Tonight we had dinner in a Mexican restaurant. In Tokyo, Japan. Six of us walked in, and upon taking our seating number, the hostess asked if we wouldn't mind sharing a table. Of course not, we said, and we were led to share the table with these two gentlemen.

We pretended that we weren't taking the picture with them, but rather just with me and Brandon, but really I had instructed Sterling to please make sure she got our strange table fellows in the picture--and I obviously had to sidle up as close to them as propriety would allow.

The unfortunate part was that one was a chain smoker. As we were seated I assumed that they would be leaving soon, given that they had basically finished their meal, but no. Wouldn't you know that they had so much to talk about, so much to smoke about, and so we shared this table for almost the entirety of the meal.

I wouldn't have minded so much if it weren't for the part when their stinky cigarette smoke kept wafting in my face. Like it was cute. Like it didn't shrivel my lungs.

And a sweet Japanese woman convinced me to purchase some face wash that had, among other things, avocado and charcoal in it.
I tried it and so far, so good.

I also washed it off and am now completely ready for bed.

Thank God for this.