Please take a moment, and listen to my sad tale of love, loss and pain. I remember the whole incident clearly as though it happened yesterday, even though it transpired over a year ago.

It was May, and we moved into the townhouse that was to be ours for the next two years. The sun was greeting us movers with warm light and smiles, and the day was worthy to be written in the halls of history.

Flash forward to the following September. Summer had drawn to a close, but we had all anticapted the upcoming school year with, well, anticipation. To me, however, something was missing in our new house. Something didn't feel right to me, as almost if the house was speaking to me, telling me that I needed to fulfill a quest of epic proportions.

I knew the piece that was missing -- a macaroni curtain. "Of course," thought I, "what student house isn't complete with a staple of student ingenuity and creativity dividing the empty doorway between our front hall and living room." And so at that, I began building.

I should have known from the beginning how the curtain was not meant to be. I purchased macaroni, and three colors of food coloring; blue, red and yellow… our school colors. Our curtain would be both useful, and instill school pride on the residents and quests of our house. But the dying process did not go smoothly, as the blue dye turned the macaroni into a deep forest green, the yellow dye didn't take, and the red stain turned my hands red for a week. For that week with my hands in my pockets, I had no idea the problem that lie ahead.

I spent a countless amount of hours sitting on the floor of the kitchen, carefully placing single piece after single piece of dyed macaroni on each individual string, and I remember how I measured the width and height of the door, and determined what the exact length of macaroni curtain I required.

Once I completed the stringing, I figured I could duct tape the string above the door. This did not work, as the string would slowly slip out from the tape, and would fall to the floor in a pile. Eventually the curtain was finally mounted after using half a roll of duct tape and a handful of woodscrews.

For the first two days, that curtain was bliss. I revelled in the dull tinkling noise that the macaroni made, and the cool smooth surface of the curtain as it softly brushed against my hands and face.

But after that the curtain began to slowly shatter. Slowly, little bits and pieces of red and green and yellow macaroni appeared on the floor, dry broken pieces that felt like glass on our tender feet. And as macroni fell from the harsh collision with each other, the curtain turned more and more into a curtain of string than of macaroni. But I still loved it -- I had put too much work into it to take it down.

One evening I returned from class, and it was gone! All that was left were a few screws in the wall above the doorway, and a few splinters of macaroni on the carpet. I was heartbroken, and felt betrayed by the anonymous housemate who in spiteful, hateful vengance tore down my beloved curtain. I believe I shed only one single, salty tear for that curtain.

I reflect now, and figure it was all for the best. I built a lousy curtain, and perhaps next time I will save myself all the pain and torment, and all the investment of blood, sweat, tears and love into building a macaroni curtain. Perhaps I'll just buy one instead, for the the financial cost is far less than the emotional cost, for the treasured item of a macaroni curtain.