So why, Velveeta, have you managed to take one of the paragons of my childhood and turned it into such an awful food?
I brought this box with me from home, in August, like some sort of a latter-day Oregon Trail trek, carrying it with me in my box o’ stuff intending on saving it for a day when I absolutely could not stomach the dining hall fare any longer, and could not stand to leave the confines of my dorm room for takeout. And when I did make it, I took the utmost care and time to stir it and rinse it and make sure all the noodles were evenly boiled, and Velveeta defiled me.
The result, humans, is a salty, gluey mess, much like the ones the gigolos named Hans leave after hosting policeman-themed birthday parties. Vaguely cheesy tasting and the type of orange you could throw at people at a rave and watch glow in the dark, but with an overall flavor of salt, MSG, and dreams deferred, Velveeta just makes me sad. And just like those oysters that change gender when their shells clump together, all these shells are stuck in one giant clusterfuck.