What better way is there to say "I'm a college student" than to sit down and enjoy a piping hot bowl of Top Ramen? That's right, none. Those oodles of noodles are a symbol. A symbol of blood, sweat, and tears. Of shrinking wallets and expanding waistlines. Now, I like to pump some extra delicious into my Ramen. Think of it like a Mustang GT; fantastic as it is, it's always better with racing stripes. A little chicken, green onion, celery seed and cilantro, and my soup is souped.
Yesterday afternoon, after a long day at the UA and a cold nipping at my heels, I decided to indulge. I had nearly made it to the living room couch, steaming bowl in hand, when I had a spaz-attack. My toes hooked the leg of the coffee table and the floor came rushing toward me. Unfortunately, I didn't go down alone. I landed shoulder-first on the table, tipping the entire frosted glass top and knocking it right off its supports. You know in the movies when some guy gets smashed against a window and there's this hideous squeak as he slides to the ground? It was a lot like that. Half of my Ramen - extra broth, extra hot - poured down my arm. I found myself flashing an image of the glass shattered, its shards running me through like a samurai sword and leaving me to bleed to a messy death on the rug. The upside: the carpet's dark brown, so at least the stain would be negligible.
I snapped out of my worst-case-scenario-induced stupor just in time to save the remainder of my lunch. Four paper towels and one short fit of frustration later, I sat eating and staring down at my toes. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later. I can't always have an audience, but thanks to Blogspot, the world can still enjoy a snicker or two at my expense.
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