On my first day after finals of my college freshman year, having moved out of my residence hall and into a friend's apartment, I find myself fallen ill. With only my wits about me and the provisions entrusted to me by those who care, I must brave the daring task of feeding myself. The thoughts and events that transpired, I have logged below.

1 p.m.

I awake from my slumber to see my apartment-mate and my friend leaving.

(I had just moved in earlier that morning; I rested now, for I am sick.)

I spot a clock.

Realizing I have not done a thing in three hours, I rise from this couch.

I blow my nose, take care of the ol’ human stuff.

I notice I am almost out of water.

I will need, soon, to replenish.

Oh, how I loathe this itchy burning in my throat's back and the weight of a stuffed nose.

I hear Chris Evans' firm voice say, "Mr. Lang," from "Captain America: Civil War." My phone received a text message.

It can be read later.

I return to sit upon the sofa, my cushioned prison.

Across the wall reads a sassy poster, "The World According to Girls." It reminds me of Tumblr. (Find me at superdoodles.tumblr.com, by the way.)

The poster does not heal me.

I glance and see a cross across the room.

Well, if Jesus could die for my sins, I could probably feed myself at least.

It is time to break into the Cup Noodles supply my mom sent me, thinking I might starve.

(There is a microwave, right?)

I glance at the kitchen. (Yes, there is a microwave.)

In which box had I packed the noodles when I moved here? I strain to recall.

(Are there plastic forks around?)

I will return to the forks question later. Finding the Cup Noodles is more important.

I find the Cup Noodles.

I enter the kitchen.

I see Nutella upon the counter. A thought races before me — I can cook something! What is that something?

Nutella on bread.

1:09 p.m.

I find in the cabinet a mug to microwave hot water for my ramen.

The Cup Noodles package reads, "Do not microwave," and I recall how a friend who studies medicine said these will definitely give me cancer if I microwave.

I decide not to microwave the noodle cup.

I fill with hot water the mug. As it heats, I return to my sofa, and write in my phone notes.

An experience like this deserves chronicling.

1:11 p.m.

The microwave beeps. I keep typing.

I finish typing, then visit the microwave to reheat.

Then I remember other things to type.

I return to the couch.

1:25 p.m.

I imagine the hot water has grown cold again now.

(I did the writing thing again!)

This has to be the last time I will reheat this.

I recall I have yet to find a fork.

Before I continue the fork search, I remove the water.

By God, it is still warm!

We cherish our victories, for they are few in this world.

I have not found the fork yet. So I stab open, with a knife, the environment — destroying plastic wrap, which clings and keeps me from my cheap noodles.

I forget how heavy all seems while sick.

As I fill with water my noodle cup, I pour a slight bit upon the counter.

I endeavor swiftly to dry it.

At least hot water dries quickly.

The Cup Noodles, imbued with hot water, sits.

I return to the heaped fortress of the packed belongings I moved in with.

I suspect I shall find a fork in the cube-shaped cardboard box christened "Medline and Things."

Luckily, it is stacked atop the things mountain.

Glad I labeled boxes.

I sift through the container yet cannot find the forks bag.

Dismay grows (perhaps I should use a real fork, like a smart person).

(But dishes though)

1:37 p.m.

Just when all hope has left me, I turn aside a towel in the box and find the cup of plastic ware.

I grasp a fork. It will do.

I return to the kitchen, to the cup noodles.

To the sick and the weary, one finds solace in cup noodles.

Yum.

1:48 p.m.

I should stop typing and go eat now.