I Ate Gas Station Sushi and Lived to Tell the Tale (Barely)

It was 2 AM. I was hungry. The only place open was a gas station. And there, in a refrigerated display case that was slightly warmer than it should have been — warm enough that the sushi was sweating — sat a package of California roll sushi. It was marked down to $3.99. It had been there for a while. I could tell because the plastic was foggy, like the sushi was breathing. Like it was alive. Like it knew what was about to happen and it was afraid.

I bought it. For science. For glory. For content. I am a journalist and this is my sacrifice. Also I was drunk and made bad decisions.

The First Bite (Mistake)

I opened the package in my car. The smell hit me first. It was the smell of the sea, but not in a good way. It was the smell of the sea after the sea has made some bad decisions. It was the smell of a beach that has been closed due to contamination. It was the smell of a fish that died of shame.

The rice was hard. Not crunchy — hard. Like it had been cooked and then left out for a day and then cooked again and then left out again. The crab (or "crab" — let's be real, it was fish-flavored sawdust mixed with regret) had a texture that I can only describe as "questionable." The avocado was brown. Not slightly brown. Brown like it had seen things. Brown like it had lived a full life and was now ready to move on to the afterlife. The avocado had accepted its fate before I even opened the package.

I took a bite. The rice crunched. Rice should not crunch. Rice is not a crunchy food. Rice is a soft food. This was a violation of the natural order. This was a crime against cuisine. This was the sound of a food that has given up on being food.

I chewed. I swallowed. I waited for death. Death did not come immediately. So I took another bite. This is how people die — not with a bang, but with a $3.99 California roll from a gas station at 2 AM while sitting in a Honda Civic that smells like old French fries. This is how empires fall. This is how we ended up here.

The Aftermath (Hell)

I finished the entire roll. I'm not proud of it. But I did it. For you. The reader. I want you to understand the sacrifices I make for my craft. I want you to know that I have suffered so you don't have to. I am a martyr. A stupid, hungry martyr.

The next 24 hours were... eventful. Let's just say that my digestive system was not prepared for what I had unleashed upon it. My body fought back. My body said "what the fuck did you just put in me" and I had no good answer. I spent a significant amount of time in the bathroom, questioning my life choices. I saw God in that bathroom. God was disappointed in me. God said "I gave you a gas station with chips and you chose the sushi. You chose this."

But I survived. I am here. I am writing this. I am a testament to the resilience of the human body and the absolute stupidity of the human spirit. My asshole has been through a war and it came out the other side. Barely.

The Verdict

Gas station sushi is a gamble. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you spend 24 hours on the toilet questioning your existence while your ancestors watch from heaven and shake their heads. I don't recommend it. But if you're going to do it, do it for the story. Do it for the content. Do it because you hate yourself a little bit and you want to feel something.

Or just buy a bag of chips. They're right next to the sushi. They won't try to kill you. They're chips. They're your friends. The sushi is not your friend. The sushi wants you dead.