It's an odd thing, being born one handful of noodles at a time. As my cooks rammed my hot, wet flesh into my saggy red skin, I was born into the abyss. Without my eyes, my only sense was that of being. There was no within and without, only me: the universe. However, as my starchy synapses slowly turned on, there was nothing but excruciating pain. Reality began to tear as my skin was peeled and stretched to make room for more noodles. I was me, and the world was outside; the world was hell. Like a baby crying for the first time, I layed there baffled as I exited my primordial womb. I could feel the cooks' hands wrigling and churning my insides, shifting my organs and pushing life into me. My first thought was for them to stop, to end my miserable existence. If life is pain, then I want no part in life. But they persisted. Noodles upon noodles upon noodles I grew. Weighing in at over 80 pounds when wet, I was a monstrosity, a modern-day Frankenstein. They belted me together to keep my organs from falling out, and threw me around as a ragdoll. They posed me in any position they like, making me no more than a slave to their aesthetic desires. Finally, they put me in my cage. After dragging me over a glass-ridden floor, they shoved me in a cold box. The light closed on my birthday as they shut the refrigerator door.

Without a proper sense of time, I had no idea how long I had been in that box. My flesh froze to the walls, adhering as a sick, red icicle. My stomach settled to my thighs, my thighs settled to my lower legs, and my lower legs settled to my feet. Finally, the cooks unearthed me, their very own frozen gelatinous blob. They tore me from my cage, peeling my skin from the walls like a band-aid.