Why My Meals Feel Empty Without Chibi Maruko-chan (Even After Watching the Same Episodes 100 Times) | by Zi | Jul, 2025

There’s a curious ritual that has quietly taken over my life. It sneaked in slowly, like an uninvited guest who eventually ends up renting a room in your soul. It’s a simple equation that now governs my every meal:

https://youtube.com/@chibimarukochanbahasaindonesia?si=CVOiV9nSSGmYTyAp

Food + Chibi Maruko-chan = Satisfaction
Food – Chibi Maruko-chan = Existential Dread

I wish I were exaggerating.

At first, it was harmless. I stumbled upon Chibi Maruko-chan Indonesia during a random lunchtime scroll. I pressed play while chewing on a sad, lonely piece of fried tofu, and boom—suddenly, that tofu tasted like the golden years of childhood, laughter, and maybe a little bit of MSG-fueled nostalgia. Ever since then, my taste buds have unionized and made one very unreasonable demand: “No Maruko, No Meal.”

Let me explain. Eating without Chibi Maruko-chan now feels… incomplete. It’s not that I can’t eat. I can chew. I can swallow. But there’s a hollowness to it, like eating in an empty theater after the show has ended and the janitor is already sweeping the confetti. Something’s missing. The flavor? Still there. The crunch? Still satisfying. But the soul of the meal? AWOL.

Chibi Maruko-chan is more than just background noise. She is the seasoning to my sambal, the soy sauce to my sushi, the serious, deadpan narration to my otherwise chaotic day. Her little misadventures—buying useless things, avoiding homework, spacing out during class, dragging Tama-chan into her chaos—mirror the kind of low-stakes drama my own life thrives on.

But here’s the twist: I’ve seen every episode. Every. Single. One. Twice. Three times. Four? I’ve lost count. Some episodes I know so well that I mouth the lines with the characters like I’m performing a one-woman kabuki play. My food sometimes gets cold while I wait for the “perfect” episode to start. There are days when I start eating only after I hear that theme song—”Odoru Ponpokorin”—which now functions as the Pavlovian bell to my inner dinner dog.

And yet, Chibi Maruko-chan Indonesia hasn’t uploaded new episodes in forever. I’ve been stuck in a time loop, watching Maruko complain about math homework in the same five outfits since before my rice cooker was born. It’s like Groundhog Day, but with rice and miso soup.

Sometimes I think I can break the spell. I try watching other shows—serious shows, grown-up shows with moody lighting and plot twists. I put on a trendy drama, the kind where everyone stares into the distance and whispers things like, “This isn’t just about the company merger, is it?” But I can’t even get through my second spoonful. My stomach folds its arms and says, “Try again.”

I even attempted anime infidelity. I cheated with Doraemon. I flirted with Shin-chan. Once, in a moment of desperation, I tried to eat lunch with One Piece in the background. That was a mistake. The pacing is too intense. I nearly choked on a meatball when Luffy screamed mid-fight. I can’t be dodging imaginary punches while trying to enjoy gado-gado.

So, I crawl back to Chibi Maruko-chan, my comfort show, my meal-time soulmate. I rewatch the episode where she wants to be an idol. Or the one where she tries to get rich quick with some shady plan involving a lucky charm. And suddenly, the rice is fluffier. The soup is warmer. The universe makes sense again.

It’s not even about the storylines anymore. It’s about the rhythm. The predictability. The way Grandpa spoils Maruko. The way she always ends up getting scolded. The narration that calmly judges everyone like a Buddhist Morgan Freeman. These things anchor me. They season my meals with emotional MSG.

Friends have begun to notice. “Why don’t you try listening to music instead?” they ask. Or worse: “You could eat mindfully, without any screen at all.”

I laugh politely, then block them for the safety of both our sanities.

Once, my internet went down at lunchtime. I panicked. There was a steaming plate of nasi goreng in front of me and no Maruko. I stared at the food, then at the wall, then back at the food. The silence was deafening. I ended up covering the plate with a napkin and eating it cold three hours later after the Wi-Fi came back. I wish I were kidding.

Maybe this is my version of grace before meals. Maybe we all need a ritual, a familiar friend, something small and silly to hold onto. In a world that keeps changing—where phone chargers evolve faster than humans, and your favorite snack gets discontinued just as you form an emotional bond—it’s comforting to know that Chibi Maruko-chan will always complain about cleaning her room.

So, no, I can’t eat without Maruko. It’s not a choice anymore. It’s a lifestyle. A strange, cartoon-dependent, rerun-based lifestyle—but mine, nonetheless.

And if Chibi Maruko-chan Indonesia ever uploads a new episode again, I might cry into my soup. And it will taste better than ever.