I had an accident...

Seriously. I had an accident. And I'm a road sign, apparently. I don't know how it happened, but now I'm not sure what to do about it. Keep reading for more information.

So today, I was bored of Rexburg. Having exhausted all of my "sit around and do nothing" patience yesterday on a How I Met Your Mother marathon, I decided to drive thirty or so minutes away to the closest town of any size, Idaho Falls.

My motivations were simple. 1. Get out of Rexburg. 2. Spend some time alone with my music. 3. Go to the bank to cash that tax return and 4. Buy some stuff for a Halloween costume at Target.

Now, as you may or may not remember, I worked in the Target Bakery for several months about a year ago. Right around this past may, I was dating a guy and trying to figure out a way to move back up to Rexburg so we didn't have to do long distance. As part of this, I put in a request to transfer to the store in Idaho Falls. They never got back to me, and I got a killer nanny job for some fantastic kids in Colorado, broke up with the boyfriend, and ended up having the most ridiculous summer ever.

Right around July, THREE full months later, the Idaho Falls Target calls and asks if I'm still looking for employment with them. I told them I would be returning in September, and I would love a job. They said they'd set up some interviews and would be calling me the following day. They never called. I called them and they never answered or called me back.

Needless to say, the rejection hurt. I thought we had a good relationship going! What we had was special, and I thought they wanted me! My pain turned bitter, I declared every man a jerk, swore off of dating forever, and became a lonely alcoholic. Wait, just kidding, that's a different story.

 To finish this long sidenote, when I came up to school, I realized I didn't want to work at Target EVER AGAIN. So I didn't go in and apply.  I was happily unemployed, and planned on staying that way all semester.

Back to today. 

I went to the bank, and discovered that there was more money in my account than expected, and after doing a small happy dance in my seat, I drove across the parking lot to Target. As always, I ended up spending significantly more money than I intended there, and so I asked the lady to scan my employee discount card just in case it still worked. It didn't. So she asks, "How long has it been since you've been a team member?"

To which I explained that I had been on a leave of absence, but they might have terminated me, since I was trying to transfer to that target but never got an interview. And before I could explain that I was glad for it, since not having a job made sure that I could focus on my schoolwork, she turns to the people in line behind me and says "Hold on a second."

She proceeds to walk towards the Guest Services counter, beckoning me to follow with two short finger curls. I followed, unsure about what was going on. Mystery employee grabs a phone, dials a number, and then says the following:

"Hey Kristy, it's MysteryEmployee. I have a woman here from a target in Colorado who says she's trying to transfer  [which I wasn't] and is here for an interview [which I definitely wasn't]. (Turns to me) what's your name? (Back into the phone) Emily. Yup. Okay. See you soon!" She hung up the phone, turns to me and says "Okay, she'll be right out. I'll wait with you until she gets here!"

At this point, I was standing around like a dog when you throw a blanket over it, entirely unsure of what was going on and not sure how to get out. I was incredibly confused and bewildered by the speed of events. So instead of telling MysteryEmployee that I actually wasn't looking for a job and I had just come to buy some stuffs and had been making polite conversation, I ended up talking to her about something stupid like snow or Black Friday. Before I knew it, two women come out of the back with a folder on which my name was written (Creepy, much?). One introduces herself to me as the lady who had spoken to me on the phone months before and then never called me back. (I bravely held back the tears of a rejection that still stung.) The other was a manager of some kind, and immediately ushered me into the back room, where I found myself in an interview, answering the question "Why do you want to work at Target?"

Now, I should have said, "Actually, I don't. I have no idea how this happened, five minutes ago I was just trying to buy some Halloween stuff and then drive home, I don't want this job. Please don't make me work here again. Whimper."

But the problem is that I was in an interview. These people were under the impression that I had gone there for the express purpose of having an interview and getting hired -- despite the fact that I hadn't showered today, was wearing my oldest jeans with no fewer than three giant holes in the upper-inner-thigh, and had on little to no makeup to hide my lack of sleep the night before. This confused me, so I found myself saying this:

"Um... It's a really good company? (Lie.) I really liked the atmosphere? (Mild lie) and...my coworkers? (More or less not a lie) and how Target treats its employees? (HUGE lie.)"

Ignoring the fact that I had responded with the most uncertainty possible, my interviewer just wrote it down (sans-question marks) and proceeded to the next question. Three minutes later, I was told to go to Food Ave and await my second interview.

So I stumbled dizzily towards the plastic chairs and popcorn smell of the familiar food avenue, pretty certain at this point that I was in a weird dream. Until the second interviewer came out, who was actually just the HR lady from earlier. The second interview went like this:
"Who was the HR person at your store? What was your store number? What time can you get here every day?"

And then she had a verbal debate with herself about whether or not she should put me on the schedule she was making for tomorrow, and which training session I should go to, and how she could figure out how to let me skip the training, since I've already been trained. I was silent and dazed the whole time. I'm beginning to suspect I may have been drugged.

We finished the interview with her saying "Okay, I'll call you tomorrow and we'll get you started as soon as we can! See ya!" To which I responded with something like, "Thanks so much! Have a great day!" And stumbled outside (after trying to go out the "in" doors and feeling stupid,) highly confused and unsure about how that had happened.

As I stood there, blinking and shivering in the wind, I realized the full gravity of what had happened. I had gone to Target to buy ONE THING. I ended up checking out with four items, and within ten minutes, I had accidentally gotten a job that I didn't ask for and didn't really want. I felt kind of like a kid who had been caught peeing her pants at school. Except I was the one who caught myself. My rational self (that knew I wasn't looking for a job, and thinks it would be a bad idea) was standing over my confused, people-pleasing, high-achieving self and frowning, unsure of how to handle the little menace and what she did.

So now the question is this: Do I take the job and drive 35 minutes to work every day for minimum or close to mininum wage, or do I not take the job and give up the extra income? (Which I could DEFINITELY use, by the way.)

Let me know what you think! Or don't. But please do, because comments make me disproportionately happy in comparison with the amount of energy it takes you.  

Also, I linked to some (okay, one) other post in this one, you can tell because some (okay, one) phrase is a different color. You can read it if you want. It's kind of related and might even be interesting, because it talks about my early perspective of working at Target. Plus it'll open in a new window! Bonus! Kaybye!

The First of the Worst

SPOILER ALERT: the date went nothing like this. And my biceps aren't nearly as well-defined as hers.

My first date in college was a little bit of a disaster, to be honest. I had met the guy randomly, when he overheard me saying something about my hometown in Colorado, promptly turned around and yelled across the thirty feet of sidewalk and frightened freshmen between us, "I'M A RANCH KID, TOO!"

At which point me (and my other two ranch-kid friends) walked up to him and had an awkward conversation. You know, the kind that goes like "So... Where did you go to high school? Oh, do you know so-and-so who also went there? No? Well... Colorado's great, huh?" It was awkward, but we eventually discovered that he was kind-of friends with my friend's cousin who had taken my other friend on a date once. Or something like that.

Anyway, to give you a little description, this kid was pretty tall (compared to me at least, which means he very well could have been very short, but he had at least 6 inches on me), had a baby face, those glasses that every four-eyed kid's mom buys them when they're about seven that are just round glass with super thin wire frames -- the kind that she thinks will keep you from getting bullied because they're as invisible and unobtrusive as possible, but actually make you look even more nerdy and style-less. He also was wearing carpenter jeans. Some day, I'll explain the myriad problems with carpenter jeans. Until then, you could just read this post about Nice Guys, because it mentions them, briefly.

But I digress. This kid ended up getting my number in the most sneaky way I've ever encountered. I was telling him about how I lived in Colorado my whole life, yet had never been skiing or snowboarding. He goes "Well, I can teach you to snowboard!" To which I responded "That would be rad!" And he goes "Here, take my number and you can call me if you ever want to go."

Sensing the seriousness of this predicament -- that this kid in whom I was not interested at all was trying to arrange an actual hang out and/or date -- I hesitantly took his number, fully intending on never using it. Then the kid goes, "Now call me so we can make sure its right."

"Nah, that's cool. I'm sure it's good," I say, hopefully, reciting it back to him.
"Seriously, my phone is weird and sometimes if you don't call me right now it won't even come through when you want to call me later," he earnestly stated.
Ignoring the obviously nonsensical reasoning behind this, I called him. Then he saved my number into his phone. That sneaky boy.

A week later he called me and asked me on a date. It was going to be a group date, to a haunted house and then ice cream. Given my one-date rule, I agreed to go. After he picked me up for the date, we walked to the boys' dorms to meet the rest of the group. Upon entering the lounge, we discovered that no one else was there. Just us, and some random kid. So we played ping pong for like 40 minutes, our awkward getting-to-know-you questions (and ensuing awkward silences) punctuated by the sound of the ball hitting the table, paddle, and wall/floor behind me.

40 minutes later, people start to show up. I quickly discover that this isn't just a group date, it's a mass date, with 5 couples. What's even better, is that no one knew anyone. Seriously, it was like this: My date knew one guy, who knew one girl, who knew another guy, who didn't know anyone and so invited a random person to join the date. And then they all brought their respective prey dates. That's a recipe for disaster.

The next ingredient to an awful date full of awkward freshmen who barely know each other is planning on going to a haunted house in a town 30 minutes away, but not planning on how to actually get there. Turns out only one of the 10 people on the date had a vehicle. And it was a truck. Luckily, in Idaho there's a law that if all of the seatbelts are used, you can have as many extra people in the car as you can fit and it's legal. Unfortunately, we were in Idaho and it was October, so once the sun goes down, the temperature drops to about Antarctica. So we weren't riding in the bed. Luckily, the truck had a cab with back seats. Unfortunately, trucks with backseats aren't actually meant for people, despite the 5 seatbelts. We all know they realistically fit 3 people and maybe a dog. Maybe.

Undeterred by the obvious lack of space and comfort, the boys decided to continue with the plan anyway. So we all piled into the truck. And immediately fell out. So we tried again. Thankfully we all grew up in a time where Tetris was the best pastime available, so we used those tricks and managed to flip, angle and drop us all into a position in the truck which was at least not excruciatingly painful. So, there I was, laying across 4 men (none of whom included my date), trying to ignore the smell that comes with 5 teenage boys -- their natural scent overriding the stench of the cheap cologne they applied with too much enthusiasm, and 5 teenage girls -- and all of their accompanying hair-products, deodorants, perfumes, and scented face glitter.

Thankfully, I had just met all of these people, so the lack of personal space, and the fact that I had no idea where I was touching who, or who was touching me where, definitely made the situation bearable. Or the exact opposite of bearable, with a little bit of nauseating on top.

So we finally get to the haunted house, called Dr. Slaughter's, where they learn it's cash only. Rather than pile everyone back into the truck to find an ATM, the ever-so gallant men decided to go look for one. They didn't want to subject us frail and delicate womenfolk to walking around the dangerous (read: ridiculously safe) streets in Idaho Falls at night, so they left us huddled together like penguins, shivering next to the bloody clown with a chainsaw.

38 minutes of incredibly fake compliments and crappy girl jokes later, our dates return, cash in hand. We go through the line, where the girls are preemptively screaming at nothing to get their vocal chords warmed up. The men feel manly letting their dates cling to their arms. My date is disappointed because I missed the class in girl-school that taught us how to tease our hair and pretend to be scared because it's "cute". (Actually, I missed most of the classes in girl-school. Thank goodness Pinterest was invented to fill in the gaps in my femininity.)

Once we get in the haunted house, I am not scared. They did a really good job, and there were lots of cool, jumpy moments, but I was too busy having disdain for the other girls to let myself be scared. It was also using a considerable amount of my concentration to keep switching my jacket to the arm on whichever side my date was standing to avoid his fumbling attempts at touching me and/or holding my hand. Yeah, I'm a jerk, I know. We all know that the only reason guys bring girls to haunted houses is because they want to feel manly and brave and have the girls cling to them like their lives depend on it. But I wasn't about to touch this kid, I didn't even know him for heaven's sake! And he was wearing carpenter jeans! And was bristling with insecurities! And I was a huge jerk!

 There was one point where, desperate for physical contact, my date led me to this section of the house where it was a long maze of hallways with long strips of white fabric hung from the ceiling every 4 or 5 inches -- meaning it was easy to get lost and disoriented. At this point, he turned to me and goes "You should probably hold my hand through this so you don't get lost." Then, being the nice, considerate girl huge jerk that I am, I looked at him, go "Oh, yeah, okay....." then turn around like I'm looking for something and nonchalantly lose myself in the maze of mummy wrap.

15 minutes later I made it out, where he is waiting with an "I told you so" look on his face. I act cute and girly and tell him how I got lost and couldn't find him, while touching his arm where a bicep belongs. His hurt masculinity is calmed. I quickly go back to not touching him.

After the haunted house, we went to get ice cream. Which meant Tetrising ourselves back into the truck. This time my date ended up underneath my calves. And then we got lost. At ice cream, we quickly discover that none of the boys are particularly good at conversation, and the girls are all pretty boring. So I start being flirty with everyone to try and get people to loosen up a bit. This leads to all the boys hitting on me with cheesy lines and the girls fake-laughing to try and get their dates' attention back while their resentment for me steadily mounts. Jealousy becomes apparent. My date isn't very good at pick-up lines. 

Once we all cram our way back into the truck for a third time (my date now under my shoulders, where I can see all the bats in the cave) we had been on the date for about 5 hours, which is crazy long for any first date, let alone one in which no one was particularly enjoying themselves.

 For some reason, everyone ignores the fact that they're not having fun, and end up going back to one kid's house to watch Sherlock Holmes. I had never seen it, and I still haven't really, because I spent pretty much the entire movie avoiding my date's stumbling attempts to cuddle with me. Luckily, I had perfected the "don't touch me" position way back in high school, which makes it virtually impossible for a boy to cuddle with you. The guy who was hosting the movie kept going back into his room to bring out some random toy or gadget to impress us all with. These included a rifle, a police baton, one of the lasers that is so powerful you can see it from like 4 miles away, nun chucks and a machete. I began to fear for my safety.

At the end of the movie (which I'm pretty sure is at least twice the length of a normal movie), my date wanted to walk home. Which was like 4 miles. In the 30 degree weather. I said "heck no! And convinced the guy with the truck to drop us off at my apartment, where an obvious party was happening. My date expects to be invited in. I have zero desire to spend any more time with him, given how this torturous date was now bordering on 8 hours in length, so I say something about going to bed and send him home with an awkward side-hug to remember me by.

He texted me the next day to thank me for a great date and suggest we do it again sometime. I don't remember if I ever answered

Cawledge

Oh, hey there Blogland. Long time no see! You look well. How's the family? The children? The weather? Oh, who am I kidding? We all know that I'm really here to talk about myself, not you. So let's get right to it.

Once upon a time, I went to college. I was a cute little baby-faced 18 year old full of smiles and hidden anxiety. Everyone had told me, "College is great because you can really just be whoever you want to be! It's a fresh start!" And I believed them. The problem was, I wasn't sure exactly who I wanted to be. Should I be the indie-art girl? The nerdy book-lover? the super social one? The dedicated to school one? The mysterious, quiet one? I didn't know, but I knew that I had very few friends going to Rexburg with me, so I would have to choose someone to be. Some person to become with this supposed "fresh slate" I was given.

Hopefully you all know where this comes from. But if you don't, it's from X-Men First Class. This character is Darwin, or Morph, because he adapts to survive. There's this awesome scene where he actually dies, but he morphs into like a gazillion things first, and that's what I picture when I talk about my silly "trying to create a new me" phase in college. Trying to morph to fit these imagined situations in my head, and as a result, not being able to actually be anything.

The few days before leaving I was packing my stuff, like most college kids do.  Quite literally everything I chose was deliberated over with the idea that all of the people I met would be looking at each shirt I wore, each bobby-pin, each picture on my wall, and formulating an opinion about me based on their opinions of that. Even my pajama shirts were subjected to this weird judgement. "I'll bring this shirt because it shows I was involved in high school, so they'll know I'm social. I'll bring this one because it says "Party Hero" on the back and that will make me seem fun. I'll bring this one because it's an EFY shirt and they'll know I also like spiritual things..." Etc etc etc... It was ridiculous I tell you. Not to mention gave me ridiculous amounts of stress.

Everything I did was based on this idea that I could choose who I wanted to be. That I could become an entirely new person and "start fresh" at college. Now, I hope everyone knows that this is a ridiculous lie that people tell you just to make you excited for school. Of course you can't change your personality with the ease of flipping over a coin. You can't go back and cleanse your persona of 18 years of trauma and damage and personality-shaping experiences simply because you move to a new place and don't know anyone. It didn't help, of course, that there were about 17 "New Emily's" that I wanted to become, and I didn't know which one to choose. So my first few days at school were full of a lot of posturing, of saying things that would help whatever supposed "new me" I was choosing to be that hour. I wanted people to know that I was artsy and creative, but not weird. I wanted to be super social, but not annoying. Spiritually strong and grounded but not "Molly Mormon". Smart and introspective, but also adventurous and fun. I don't know if you were keeping track, but that's a lot of things for any one person to become, especially overnight. Needless to say, I made a lot of weird first-impressions on people. Which I didn't find out about until 3 or 4 months later, when the effort of trying to write on this "new slate" had made me lazy and I was finally able to relax, stop trying so hard, and just be.

My room-roommate, Kaylin, who later became one of my best friends, thought that I was super quiet and weird and only wanted to sit in my room and listen to John Mayer and that I didn't like to have fun or smile or laugh.

Another roommate, Jaide, who also later became one of my best friends, thought I hated her and was super mean.

One kid thought I was ridiculously pushy and annoying, because I kept asking him if he remembered my name. (Why? I have no clue. I was just so stressed out about creating a new me.)

Several people thought I was incredibly negative because all I could talk about was how great Colorado was, and how different (read: better) it was (is) than Idaho. (Sub-conscious home-sickness? Probably. Definitely. But let's be real, Colorado is the best place on earth, so how can you blame me?)

Others were under the impression that I was bipolar, crazy, weird, and even twins.

And the list goes on. But I'm already embarrassed enough, so I'll stop there.

I know, it's shocking that I even made friends that semester, what with being the most ridiculously fake and insecure person alive. I'm surprised too, no worries. Let's add to this stress the fact that I had never lived on my own before, had no idea that baking every other day would make me fat, and was in a really weird time of personal, emotional and spiritual change and wandering. Basically, I was a huge mess. Luckily, I hid it pretty well, so hopefully most people just thought I was this weird, eccentric, super-freak, as opposed to a weird, eccentric, super-freak on the verge of a complete emotional, spiritual and mental break down. Actually, I even hid that from myself, and I didn't realize what a mess I was until almost a year later, when I was much more stable and normal and way less of a super-freak.

I don't remember where I was going with this post, to be honest. Actually, this is not at all what I was intending to write about, but I'll go with it. So let's make a list, because I like lists.

How Not to be a Super-Freak Your First Semester of College

1. Accept that there is no such thing as a "clean slate," or "fresh start." That sounds depressing, but it's actually a very good thing. We are the sum total of our experiences, whether good or bad, and if a sudden life change like, maybe, moving 800 miles away to college, could suddenly erase all of that, you would be wandering around like drunk person in a laser tag zone. Totally disoriented, overwhelmed, and bumping into walls like nobody's business. You would have no sense of self, direction, or idea how to relate to other people. Believe me, I tried it, it didn't work. (The clean-slate thing, not the drunk laser tagging, although I have played laser tag with drunk people, and that's actually super funny.)
2. Wear things because you want to, not because you think it'll give other people a certain impression of you. Because it will end up with you wearing something absurd, like sweatpants with a dressy top and curled hair because you think that will make people know that you can be casual and cute at the same time but really they'll just think you suck at getting dressed.
3. People don't need to know every aspect of your personality all at once. This was my main problem, I think. I was paranoid that people would get the wrong impression of me, so I tried to give them every impression of me at the same time, which is silly and confusing. So here's the thing, I get it. You're multi-faceted and interesting and there is oh so much more beneath the surface for you. But don't try and shove all of that amazingness down people's throats the first time you meet, mmmk?
4. Eating dessert every 2 days will make you fat. Your jeans don't fit anymore? Yes, it's because you're growing, but ladies if you're in college, chances are you stopped growing upwardsw like 2 years go, and the only way you're growing now is outwards. That's not a good thing. Hit the gym and hide the baking products.
5. Relax. This is what I was not good at. I was super stressed about making friends and having a good impression on everyone, so I was pretty much incapable of actually being myself. That stress manifested itself in me being unable to stress properly about my schoolwork and ended up with me watching a gazillion hours of netflix and like 4 seasons of Chuck in as many days.
6. Sitting in a cute pose and looking hot will not make boys come talk to you. I don't care if you're the cutest girl ever, if you sit by yourself, without talking to anyone, you're not going to get asked on any dates. My first semester, I thought that looking cute was enough to get attention from guys, but the problem is this: The guy/girl ratio at BYU-I is about 3:1. Three girls to every one guy. And you know what? Chances are at least one of those girls is cuter than you, and the other girl is out there starting conversations and being more awesome than you. So in reality, looking cute really is not enough. Stop lying to yourself and go start some conversations and make friends. My first semester, I went on 2 dates. Just two. Both of them were weird. My second semester, once I started making friends and talking to people (and not being a super-freak) I was going on an average of 2 dates a week. That's a big difference.
7. People don't really care about you. Again, this sounds bad, but hear me out. People do care. I care. Someone cares. Don't go jump off a bridge, please. What I mean by this, however, is that people are way too concerned with their own lives to pay attention to what you wear, how you decorate your room, or how many times you've done your hair the same way this week. Even if they do notice those things, they definitely don't care enough to start making conjectures about you based on that. So relax, do your hair how you want it, wear what makes you comfortable because you like it, not because it says something about you. Say what you want to say because you want to, not because it'll make something think a certain way about you. Once you realize this, you can relax and be yourself and then you'll have infinitely more fun. I promise.

Okay, Blogtopia. It's been a nice reunion. Good to catch up with you. I'm tired of writing now, so I'm going to go do anything other than stay here. I'll try to write more frequently, I promise. Just cut me some slack, because I'm back in school and trying hard to not be a super-freak. Plus my romantic life is more ridiculous than a Spanish soap-opera at the moment. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime... 12 months from now. Next time I'll write a funny story. Kaybye!

Evil Villain Sweat

I don't even know how to start this post because I am so distraught. (Warning: approaching is a First World Problem) The other day, I saw a box of Lucky Charms cereal in my cupboard. I don't even really like Lucky Charms, but we never ever ever have sugar cereal, so when we do I eat copious amounts of it even if it's kind of gross like Lucky Charms. Anyway, I saw the box and got hit instantly with a craving for cereal. However, I was working. I had brought my nanny kids to my house for the day, and if I starting eating pure sugar soaked in milk, they would want some too. But I am selfish and didn't want to share I didn't want to give them sugar because it's bad for them and would ruin their appetites and I'mthebestnannyever. So I decided the Lucky Charms would have to wait until after work.

So later, after roughly 12 hours of anticipation, I am seriously looking forward to my cereal. I get the box out while talking to my mom about the pros and cons of Lucky Charms marshmallows. I pour a huge bowl, while still talking to my mom about it. I get a spoon. I crush the box and start heading toward the fridge when my mom turns around, looks at my bowl, and goes, "Oh, we're out of milk."

And with those five words, my whole world crashed to the floor. Or maybe it was just my spoon. Regardless, I was upset.

Maybe now would be a good time to explain something about myself to you. Growing up, we always had about 5 gallons of milk in the fridge at any given time. We usually drank a big glass of milk for every meal, and all through high school my breakfasts consisted solely of Carnation Instant Breakfast, which is just chocolate milk with extra vitamins. So when we ran out of milk, it meant I didn't have breakfast that day, which is always a harrowing experience.

That mentality followed me into my first year at college.  When I ran out of milk, it didn't matter if my cupboard was completely full of nutella, bread, puppy chow, noodles, soup and myriad other edible items. It didn't matter if the fridge was full of eggs and leftovers. When I ran out of milk, I thought that I had also run out of food. I became convinced that I had nothing to eat and would definitely starve unless I immediately went to the store and bought some 2%. The two semesters when I didn't have a car made that pretty rough, however. I would sometimes have to last for hours, even days, existing on whatever measly crumbs I could find until I could find a ride to the store and bring home that gallon of milk. Once it was sitting comfortably in the fridge, my food cupboard was suddenly full to abundance with decadent meals like Rice-A-Roni and PB&J, and I could eat to my heart's content. It was always an emotional experience.

My cupboard without milk

My cupboard with milk.
Meaning I would immediately eat myself into a food coma. Which is maybe why I gained so much weight at school.

But back to the Lucky Charms. My world/spoon had just crashed to the floor, because my mom told me we didn't have any milk. I opened the fridge just to see for myself, and sure enough, no cow milk to be found. But then I saw it. Sitting right against the edge of the fridge, where the real milk was supposed to be... Two boxes of rice milk.

Ordinarily I would have gagged and walked away, but I was so excited for my Lucky Charms, plus the picture on it looked so creamy and thick and milk-ish. And it was now organic! Surely a substitute milk wouldn't make much difference, especially not if it's just there to moisten the cereal a bit, right? Wrong. Listen close, blogland: rice milk is probably what they serve in Hell, just to give people a little hope of tasting real milk and then crush them by what a ridiculously bad substitute it is. Rice milk is the stuff of nightmares. It tastes like I imagine the sweat of true evil villains would taste like. Which is definitely a gross thing to imagine, let alone have to drink. I don't even know why we had it in the fridge, or why anyone anywhere would drink some and think "Yum! This is definitely as good as real milk, I'll continue buying it!"

And what's worse is that I still really really wanted my cereal. So I tried to muscle through it. I tried to focus only on the taste of the crunchy marshmallows and soggy frosted shapes, while ignoring the all at once too-sweet and incredibly bitter taste of the imposter milk. I even made it through about half of my bowl before raising my white flag of shame and dumping it down the drain, hopes and dreams completely obliterated.

The next morning, joy of joys, I discovered that somehow four gallons of real milk had appeared in the night. Probably a gift from the milk-fairy, who surely felt bad about my terrible experience with pure milkish evil the night before. I breathed a sigh of relief until I saw, right next to it, [insert scary music here] two cartons of Almond Milk. Someone in my house clearly has it out for me. I will find you, imposter milk buyer, and I when I find you, I will question you. And after I question you, I will complain about your poor choice in "milk".

UPDATE: I think it deserves to be noted that not all imposter milk tastes like the sweat of villains. Chocolate Soy Milk is essentially liquified candy mixed with crack. Also, I just realized this is basically just like my Netflix post, except with milk. Sorry for the unintentional repetitiveness, sub-par substitutes just really upset me, apparently. Kaybye.