As an impoverished American who came of food age in the 90s and beyond, I had always looked to ramen — the 25-cents-a-package staple that could serve as breakfast, lunch, dinner and, usually, fourth meal — to be my saving grace when times got hard, bills were looming, and my belly was empty.
It was my standard nourishment with a little hot water, some starchy seasoning, and a full brick of the pseudo-Japanese noodles. With all the pennies I saved, I went to the bar comic book store and, of course, didn’t have any sex for a long time.
Thankfully, I don’t roll that way anymore, at least with the processed ramen.