I recently discovered that my Ramen is missing. Now, I’ve heard some say that Ramen is sickening and bland, but I rejoice in Ramen. There is something indescribably delicious about the complex taste of MSG and something magical about being able to cook pasta with two cups of water in two minutes. I don’t know if even Mrs. Weasley could do that. Okay, she probably could, but the point remains that Ramen is freaking awesome. The simplicity of that aluminum packet that just begs you to crack it, the noodles that always retain their curliness no matter how much you swirl them around … I would say don’t even get me started, but I already have.
So now that you understand my absolute, undying love for Ramen (I mean, come on, they’ve even got Cajun Chicken and Chili Lime Shrimp flavors), you can begin to fathom the depths of my surprise when I discovered that over half of the chicken Ramen in my fridge is missing. What’s particularly odd about this is that almost everyone in my hall is a vegetarian. And the only boy who isn’t a vegetarian has sworn, on the pain of disembowelment by plastic fork, that he hasn’t laid a finger on the Ramen packets.
This leads me to the only alternative: some complete stranger must have come into my room and taken the Ramen. Somebody must have walked into our hall, tried the doors to our rooms, found ours open, walked past the laptops, wallets and various female undergarments to open our fridge and steal four packets of Ramen. Not to mention, they neglected our strawberry Pop-Tarts. You think I love Ramen? Just wait till you hear me talk about Pop-Tarts.
I must admit to a certain degree of fault in this situation. For the past month, I’ve been leaving my door unlocked. But no longer, my interloper friends, no longer. You’ve forced my hand and I refuse to enable your needs further. From now on, my door will be locked, bolted, double-bolted and the peephole will have laser capacity. I plan to stock up my room with an arsenal similar to that of Angelina Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, complete with an oven of knives. I will sleep with my key, eat with my key and even shower with my key if that means that you will not be able to eat my Ramen.
The one flaw in my plan is the existence of a roof that could allow someone to enter through the window and thus come into my room to eat my Ramen, if they possessed the amount of spirit and agility equal to or perhaps greater than that of Batman. But you know what, if you succeed in doing that, please do eat my Ramen. Scaling the wall, maneuvering over the rooftop and entering through my window just for the sake of Ramen merits at least one package. In fact, sit on my bed as you eat it, for you deserve it. Don’t even feel like you have to throw away the trash or wash the dishes.
Anyone else, though, is encouraged to at least knock on the door before coming in to steal my Ramen. After all, it’s a common courtesy, and I might be naked.
Finally, and this is addressed solely to the Ramen stealer(s) out there: if you are feeling any pangs of guilt, I am currently accepting restitution for all food losses and ensuing emotional damage in the form of 1) a check payable to Morgan Yucel for up to and no less than 47 back massages, 2) a batch of fresh-baked cookies delivered to my room once a week and 3) four packets of Ramen. I would like to make clear that this is not an either/or type of deal, but more of an everything-included one. I greatly look forward to making your acquaintance with my back and your cookies, but if not, I sincerely hope never to see you again.