A recovering alcoholic might say that things must get worse before they can get better. I wouldn’t say that because I’m not recovering. But I think that I may have hit rock bottom with my soup consumption. These tiny tubs of fried and dried noodles are making their way into my digestive tract with frightening frequency. And it's not because they're a dime a dozen – I actually like them. There, I said it.
Fucking disgusting, I know.
I’m particularly fond of the little bits of brown, buoyant, beef-like styrofoam nuggets that each cup contains. I find myself wishing for a football sized piece of this magical material so I could reconstitute a steak dinner at a moment’s notice.
Dare to dream.
Dare. To. Dream.
