Who Touched My Fuckin Milk?

I’m going to tell you something that is going to shock you.

It may even force you to question whether you know me at all, but you deserve to know.

I am absolutely fucking anal about people touching my food/drink/snacks – basically anything that I had to haul myself to the store for, shop aisle by aisle for, pick out for myself by me, pay for, load into my car, drive home, and put away into my cupboard, on my fridge shelf, or onto counter space. I know. But my calibrated brain has an inventory of my items right down to the number of hazy plastic sleeves that hold my cheese-food-product, the scoops that were taken out of my butter in a tub, and the level that my cheerios are at. I know. Trust me, I know.

Unfortunately, this little compulsion is accompanied by the urge to hoard. An aggregator, amasser, stockpiler of my bounty. I buy it (or it’s gifted to me) and I decide that one day I’ll really really REALLY want it, and I’ll have the perfect treat for myself. The classic Hoardus Maximus. Veni Vidi Hide-i. I have withstood hours of questioning, mockery and testing of the reaction I have to my delectable riches, and that’s alright … because I know exactly where a marzipan egg, butterfinger, and gold-foil covered chocolate coin is that you’ll never find. Waterboard me all day long, but you will never know the true location of all of my prizes. Okay, so maybe I don’t even know where all of my little preciouses are, but they’re safe, and that’s all that matters.

I digress.

My point is, that I decided a few weeks ago, after finding yet again that I needed milk (even though I know for a fact that I haven’t touched this particular milk in a good week), to write a friendly little reminder to my household and guests how I was feeling a little protective over my goods.

I realize that this image is blurry, despite S’s camera’s tries, but it says “DO NOT TOUCH MY MILK!”. Upon further investigation one would see that it’s all in CAPS, the DO and the NOT are nicely underlined, and it’s an exclamatory sentence.

You can tell by the “!”

Just in case you thought that it wasn’t written to you. I covered my bases. That little notice on the other side by the cap. The cap that you have to remove to get to the glorious bovine silken goodness inside? That says MY FUCKIN MILK!

Again, you will notice the emphatic “!”.

Today when I smiled down on my bowl of honey nut cheerios (at the same level I left them), I went to fill-er-up with milk and saw that my milk had indeed been befouled.

In case I couldn’t read it, it was written very clearly

“I touched it uh huh!”. The sting of that familiar exclamation point. The burn, the burn.

Set off with one smiley faced O. A big, calcium rich smile of a grinning O.

Fail.