Yeah, my pants smell like teriyaki.
There are worse things they could smell like. I mean, when it really comes down to it, the root of teriyaki is just a salty smell. It could be a bitter beer smell, or even old wine or something.

So my poor girlfriend is sick with obstructive tonsilitis, a condition I managed to suffer through for the first five years of my life, so I can sympathize. As horrible as this sounds though, its really a stroke of luck. If she were sick with something horrid like mono, (or chicken pox as haven't had that either) I couldn't be around her at all. But, my lack of tonsils allow me the freedom to stay at her bedside while she takes gatorade intra-veinously, as well as cook her some damned good ramen. I even go to the lengths to deliver said ramen. This brings us full circle to why my pants smell like teriyaki.

So tonight was a bit of a learning lesson. The lesson is simply: don't keep a bowl full of soupy ramen in your lap while attempting to drive a stick shift on a dirt road.

The alleyway behind my house was dimly lit, but by habit I took it much faster than I well should have. Some asshole who should have put his money into a better house rather than a snappy car has taken habit to parking his new BMW in the middle of the alleyway, causing me to swerve around it. The ramen did not spill. When I swerved again to miss that fucking rooster that crows at every hour during the night, and never once during the morning, the ramen refused spill. Naturally however, as I was trying to make a fairly quick left turn onto Park Ave with cars approaching rapidly from either side - my confidence high from not spilling any ramen yet - the ramen spilled.

A few things went through my mind over the next few seconds. First, "Oh shit, I just spilled ramen on my book." (I was buffering the heat from the bowl by keeping it on a novel I am reading for my Japanese war lit class right now.) Second, "Wow, this is going to look bad." (Noticing the beautiful pattern the liquid had made on my crotch) And finally, "oh shit, thats hot." What followed was an audible scream. It struck me as odd (even as I was screaming) that it took a few seconds for the soup to heat up my pants enough to scald me.

Anyway, it wasn't that bad. The burning stopped after a few seconds, and I stopped carrying the ramen in my lap. There has to be an easier way to transport it though; I just need to figure out what that is. My girlfriend was appreciative, so it was all worth it in the end.

My lawsuit with Top Ramen is now pending, for their failure to warn me that ramen might be hot once cooked.