Then there was a week stepmother forgot to buy it. Then she promised it would be at Aunt Andy's house. There was so much food, there were at least 50 guests, 40 i'd never seen before.
No ramen available for lunch, dinner, breakfast. Finally, Dad shows up with that red and white food of Japan.
I eat too fast, after eating nothing but Cheetos for 9 days. I end up projectile barfing up through my nose and mouth at once. The greasy noodles come up so easy I can hear them whooshing past my ears.
Aunt Andy's toilet was at the far end of her bathroom. You had to pass 12 feet of high, dense csrpet, mirrored cosmetics, to get to the cold bathroom floor where the scallop shell-shaped sink sat, then finally a toilet by the window. I loved looking out of that window all day. I'd suddenly thrown up enough at this point in my life to know what to prioritize. Seek tiled floor, plastic furniture, biggest drain possible. I make it to the sink.
But this sink is wide and shallow with a tiny drain. When it's over and I open my eyes, there's a manhole-sized pile of what looks like fresh ramen mixed with bubbly snot. From the bathtub, as stepmother ran the cold shower on my fully clothed body like I had just od'ed, I had to watch their 100yo cleaning lady struggle to grab onto the slippery noodles.
I still struggle with ramen. I fucking love ramen. I do go to ramen houses, but have to use all of my regulating skills before, during, and after. I could live without ramen. I love ramen. Plain, no chunks, from a packet, ramen. You can't spring it on me. I will go into a tailspin at its suggestion, literally. I love ramen, I'll need to rest in my ice chamber of solitude immediately following ramen.
Found out two decades later, I was given ipecac as the bowl of ramen was placed in front of me.
Fractals, am I right?
