Letter Number Three.

Dear Chicken-Flavored Ramen,

I see you every time I go to the grocery store. Your look constantly begs me to return to you. You know my irrational love of orange-colored things, and you taunt me with your appropriately-colored packaging. I can feel your ridges and remember the waves of noodles that resulted from each contact with boiling water in my $7.88 hot pot I got on sale at Target.

Vegetarianism tears us apart now. Meals cost dollars instead of cents. It's insanity.

It's obvious that I miss you, Ramen. And yet, I constantly wonder...how long must I have to remind myself that this lingering love is simply a chemical addiction perpetuated by monosodium glutamate stored in my body?

Love,
Kymba