All my pennies saved, foil packet and a brick

I am fortunate to have many friends that pride themselves on being able to practice gastronomical alchemy. I don't even know what 'good food' really is, but overhearing their explanations of tantric kneading techniques, forbidden roasting practices etc. I know that they do. Unfortunately I have not yet been able to arrange a full 7-day table cycle where I can share my skills in mooching and spilling beer with different acquaintances each evening. As such, I maintain a sack full of ramen (or, as Mom insists, 'Ramon') under the counter.
Which works too, 'cause for some reason I cannot get sick of this stuff. And not because I switch up delicate ramen variations with diverse additions to go Gourmet on a Budget. Always the same: same bowl, 'cause I know the exact water level for proper broth-powder-molarity, break ramen pack crossways and lengthwise once, forming 4 approximately equal "noodle seeds" along with some debris, put the noodles into the bowl in the correct inverted-pyramid arrangement (squinted eyes reveal a noodle-palm, opened and offering its bounty), slit the flavor-pak and pour into the palm (dust, from the wind, returns to answer all if you can grasp it), and then water (cold, to shock the palm and bring circulation to the proceedings). Three minutes twirling on the greasy microwave tray, and then time to cool. Then partake of this unholy cocktail. My girlfriend is of the stovetop ramen camp, for which I suspect improper raising. Fit only for the drunkest and latest of hours, this method assumes that those noodles can some how absorb broth and flavor, which is absurd. That is like saying perfect could get any better. Not to mention missing out on that last mouthful of tiny noodle shards slurped with broth from the bowl. There is a curse, though... slight throbbing pains in my chest, like running cramps. Perhaps that is simply palpitations resulting from the ecstastic Rapture experienced. Also, having seen Tampopo several times, I know I wallow in a lower level of heaven while cowboy hatted Japanese truckers gaze down from on high at my inferior drug. But I am happy, and for that I tip my bowl to ramen and let a somewhat incredibly flavored belch.