There are pretty girls everywhere in Japan, even at gas stations in the countryside or at private kindergartens where I work. I attribute this to small serving sizes, fewer magazine genres, the absence of both Ben and Jerry, and enormous batches of oppression baked fresh daily.
There are pretty girls everywhere in Japan, but they are mostly the same girl repeated many times. I saw a girl today and thought to myself, “She’s pretty. She could be in the Japanese equivalent of the L.L. Bean catalog–R.R. Bean.” Then later, ascending the stairs of Kashiwamori Station, I saw a different girl making her way down. She, too, was pretty, I first noted, before also noting that she was, for all intents and purposes, the same girl as the first girl. All her clothes were the same, as was her hair and makeup. There was also something I couldn’t quite make out on her neck, but I believed it to be either a bar code or a smudge of biscotti chocolate.
This was the same staircase that shattered my two front teeth a few months ago.