Milk and Cookie Massacre

This is a writing exercise we had to do in class today, and my group thought mine was funny, so I had to read it out loud in front of the whole class. I was like ahh fuck, but everyone laughed during it, so it turned out ok.  Here it is:


I have an uneasy relationship with milk.

Scarred more than once by the spoiled by-products of a cow, suspicion is usually my first reaction to any sort of dairy.  I believe this all began with an incident from my childhood. The Milk and Cookie Massacre of second grade.

Milk and Cookie Break came halfway through the morning; early enough that our appetites wouldn't be spoiled for whatever slop-of-the-day on plastic trays we'd be having later, but not so late that blood sugar levels dropped into tantrum range. 

I believe Milk and Cookie Break was a social contract designed to keep us obedient. Pay attention a little longer, children, and we'll have Milk and Cookie time in just a bit. If I see you pull her hair again, little Johnny, you won't be getting your Milk and Cookie time today. 

Faced with the loss of Milk and Cookie Break, even hell spawn like Michael DeLaRosa were forced into retreat.

The milks were in perfect white cartons, lined up like little soldiers on the rolling cart that came to every classroom one by one. We all waited impatiently for our turn to select either white or chocolate milk, and then set to work dunking and devouring our cookies.

Feeling particularly adventurous, I chose chocolate milk with my chocolate chip cookie. Why the hell not, what's another 200 calories when you're 7 years old? Back then, I didn't even have thighs, just another set of monkey arms hanging from my hips.

Right away, it became obvious that something was terribly wrong.

As per usual, I had opened my little carton and poured my first big gulp right down the hatch. But instead of normal milk, I felt the strangest sensation of slimy, curd-like chunks sliding around my mouth.

Instinctively, I spit them out into my hand.

Fascinated and repulsed by this turn of events, I examined the chunks for a moment before becoming aware of the most awful taste I had every experienced. Imagine the sweetest, most rotten, most disgusting taste you can, and now add a little texture.

Gagging, I saw the chunks in my hand were brownish-green, and was instantly transported back to the time we fed our cat too many hot dogs, and he shit all over the house.  It was almost exactly the same hue and consistency.

All around me, children were crying, spitting, and yelling. My milk was not the only one that had gone bad. The milk had been spoiled for at least a week, and most of it had solidified into a jelly-like mass of pure nastiness.

Whichever lunch lady was in charge of the milk cart that day had truly fucked up.

I remember a boy sitting next to me saying, "Why? Why?" That, and the taste, that even hours later, I just couldn't get out of my mouth.

This incident gave me more insight into life than a second grader has any right to. 

First, expectation can be a powerful tool to motivate and control, especially children and stupid adults. Make your dog do a trick, and then give him a treat. Repeat the process enough, and the expectation of a reward becomes so standard, that you could throw him a lit firecracker and he'd try to swallow it.  Same with kids.

This leads me to my second point, which is that when life is planning to take a shit in your mouth, you'll never see it coming. Life owes us nothing, and there is no reason to expect anything different. Why would God make second graders choke on curdled milk?

Because he's an asshole, and he can.

Third, sometimes the things we want the most end up being as spoiled and rotten as we thought they'd be wonderful. Like how I chased after the hottest guy ever and when I got him, realized he was a total asshole and awful in bed. Side note, the only thing a girl should ever chase is a shot. Of whiskey. Because who needs to chase vodka? It's delicious.

And finally, check the fucking expiration date on everything or you deserve what you get.