Ways to Avoid Writing My Paper- #41 Drink Milk

From 100 Ways to Avoid Writing My Term Paper

#41 Drink Milk:

In college, I lived in a suite full of alcoholics. There was always a bottle lying around somewhere, empty, full, or half full, of some kind of alcoholic drink. Everyone had their favorites, and we’d cycle through a wide variety of drinks that rivaled that of a small pub. Vodka was perhaps the most popular all around, while a good amount of whiskey was always on hand. There were cans of ginger beer, cheap boxed wine, and classic Fireball. We sampled Irish Cream, Jamaican Rum, and Argentinian Wine, and for special occasions, everyone would chip in for a big ol’ bottle of Grey Goose. And while the consumption of so many drinks was, in fact, quite impressive, none were a match for one drink so potent and so powerful that even the mention of it would lead to the sculling of an entire bottle.

That drink, was milk. And I alone was responsible for 99% of milk consumption in our suite.

My relationship with milk started at an early age. I drank milk a lot as a kid, probably not that much more than any ordinary kid, but enough that it was always stocked in the fridge and readily pulled out when needed. It would accompany cookies, or ice cream, or pizza, or almost any other meal I would eat as a kid. But, that wasn’t a weird thing, just kind of, normal. One day, while riding my bike with my father, we came across a farm appearing to sell fresh milk right from the cow. We inquired about costs and tastes and whether it was worth the extra money for organic, raw milk, so incredibly enticing that we were licking our lips just thinking about it. We caved. And so, from that day forward, we fell in love with Gumaer Farms’ milk.

Every Monday, five fresh and full gallon bottles of milk were delivered to our doorstep. We became privileged and entranced by this milk, joining us at every meal and every gathering. A fair amount of rationing had to take place, as after all, five gallons would need to last the whole week, and for any rational person that shouldn’t have been that hard. But for my father and I, this was a constant struggle, our lust growing stronger and stronger with every sip. The milk ruled our lives, and as we transformed into new and enhanced beings we fell deeper and deeper into the potential for tragedy.

And one day, tragedy came. Gumaer Farms closed. The milk was no more.

I haven’t really recovered since. They say it’s harder when you’re so young as I was. Ever since, there’s been a deep wound, a hole that has yet to be filled. I’ve found myself on a life long quest, to find the rightful heir to Gumaer Farms, searching for the perfect milk ever since. Now, there are very close contenders, the closest being Amish milk. Of course, I don’t live near any Amish people, and I’m not making the 5 hour drive to Lancaster every time I want a decent glass of milk.

Despite not having a rightful successor, I drink milk a lot. At home, my father and I will go through a gallon in three or four days. It’s on the grocery list every single time, and we’ll always be checking in with each other when we’re going out to see if we need any milk. If we’re watching a movie and having popcorn, it has to be accompanied by milk. After having shoveled the driveway, the only proper drink for either of us when coming inside is a cold glass of milk. I’ll get up in the middle of the night craving milk, go downstairs to the fridge and chug an entire glass, and go right back to bed. And I’m 90% certain Dad does the same thing.

Naturally, I brought my milk habits with me to college, and for the first time, I started to realize that maybe my milk consumption isn’t quite as normal as I’d thought. I’d go grocery shopping with my roommates, and every time I would grab a bottle of milk they’d say “Really? You’re out again?” I’d come home from class, drop my bag in my room, and come out and crack open a bottle o’ milk before plopping on the couch and watching t.v.. My friends would take shots and I’d join them with my own little tiny shot glass of milk. Within my first twenty four hours in Australia, I was asking whether milk was the same here as it was back home so I could make an informed consumer judgement (in hind sight, it was a stupid question, but hey, you gotta be sure). Everyone would make fun of me, call me insane. But what they didn’t understand milk like I did. How it enriched the body, made you stronger and smarter, better looking and more confident. Only I had unlocked the true potential of milk. It was almost like, we were inseparable.

Or perhaps, there was a problem. My roommate Alex would come back from a long night out to find me up grabbing a quick drink before going back to bed. I’d stock up on bottles before a snow storm or heavy rain like we were expecting Hurricane Katrina. And then, I’d venture out anyway into the freezing snow or torrential downpour to grab a bottle or two of milk because I’d have gone through the others already. I would drink when I was happy, or lonely, or stressed, or tired. You would mention the word “milk”, and my mouth would water like one of Pavlov’s dogs (heck, I’m going to grab some milk right now before I start writing the next paragraph).

Then one night, my friends challenged me. They wanted to see how much I could truly drink, whether I was truly ‘the milkman’. I told them how much I drank at home with my Dad, and how we’d constantly be running through whole gallon jugs of the stuff every week. Now, I don’t remember whether they dared me, or it was me being cocky, but we came to make a bet on whether I could drink a whole gallon of milk, by myself, in just twenty four hours. If I did it, they’d buy my next three rounds of milk. If not, I had to get a radically new haircut. I had no choice but to succeed: I would prove myself to my mates, to my father, to Gumaer Farms, just how far I would go for my milk (and also, I’ve had essentially the same haircut for a few years now, and I’m not changing it anytime soon). Twenty four hours had started. I drove to the store, bought the best milk they had, and rushed home to fit it in the fridge.

Only, it didn’t fit. Our micro-fridge in the common room was too small. I looked in my own mini fridge to see if there was any more room in there. Nope. Noah and Brian didn’t have any room either, and Sabrina wasn’t around to let me use her fridge. I became worried. If I don’t drink this milk, I lose. If I drink it, I’ll have to do it all now. I scrambled around the fridge to see if there was any possible way I could make room. Leftovers were being tossed, shelves ripped from the unit, old water bottles emptied and recycled in an effort to make enough room for the giant gallon. Unfortunately for the sake of story but fortunately enough for me, I managed to make it fit with a little tight squeezing.

On to the drinking. It was 8:00 at night, and I had until about 7:00 tomorrow evening to drink all the milk. Friday was my busy day, of course, with class starting at 8 in the morning. Luckily, that meant I could wake up early to get a head start on the drinking. I drank about a quarter of the milk before going to bed, probably around 11:30. Waking up at 7, I had a quick breakfast and chugged a fair amount of milk to go with it. I still had a little over half a gallon to go, but I had almost twelve hours to accomplish it. My strategy then was, whenever I had a break from class or work, come back to the dorm and drink what I could. No meals at the dining hall, no other drinks, eat only at the dorm. No water fountains, no sips from the water cooler, nothing. With the snow having cleared up, I could make these runs back and forth quicker on the bike, and I’d have a lot of running around to do. All day, I’d go from class, to the dorm, to another class, back to the dorm, to work, back to the dorm again, and so forth, chugging milk every step of the way.

And so, with a lot of hard work, sweat, and chugging, I knocked on Noah and Brian’s door two hours early, with an empty gallon jug in my hand. I did it. Honestly, I didn’t entirely doubt I could. But that satisfaction of the battle won, having overcome and won the bet was a proud moment either way. I dropped the jug at their feet.

“You don’t feel sick at all, do you?” they ask.

“Nope.”

“Jon, you’re a milkaholic.”

Well, time to break the news to Dad. At least I’m not alone.

(Credit to Brian for his Snapchat)