Cup Noodle Diaries

The following post was recently rescued after having been buried in a mess of crappy saved drafts from three months ago.


Lunch. Shio "ramen." Thank god for the sesame cracked pepper sodium smokescreen. Waribashi gently patting the noodle cake deeper into the hot water, I'd hate to remember, even for a moment, that I was about to eat cardboard noodles and plastic krab soaked in synthetic greasy broth from a styrofoam cup.

The volleyball coach's cell phone chirps out that nauseating J-pop melody for the third time this hour. I am running out of valid reasons to not carry out unspeakable acts of violence against him and his idiotic phone.

Waiting. Approximately 2.5 minutes for the boiling water to bring the floating "men" cake and assorted "meats" and "vegetables" to a consistency appropriate for consumption. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Same soup, different flavors of sodium. Sometimes the salty meat slides out of a vacuum pack, sometimes it puffs out or expands in the boiling water. Brown, gray, darkish beige, even red once. "Infant Blood" "Kimchi" the package said. I swore off UFO noodles last week after accidentally spilling a bit of the thick, viscous, flavor packet oil on the back of my hand. A true, as-seen-on-CNN environmental disaster, mere 12 inches from my face; I watched in horror as my skin's delicate natural habitat was ruined. Fragile hairs lay dead and wilted. Deep, dark oil stains spreading between knuckles. Greenpeace hippies in mourning, pulling blue tarps over fingernails less fortunate.

Ok, no hippies, but my right hand stank like a beast in high heat, for the better part of three days, despite repeated, violent washings. Besides probably lubricating them to "greased lightning" caliber, I got to wondering what the flavor oil was probably doing to my intestines. Six months of this shit, and no wicked sweet mutant powers yet. Probably time to lay off, and switch to something more potent.