When you get to be my age, you tend to develop an inherent distrust of dairy. Long gone are the salad days of polishing off a gallon of milk a day, or whittling away at a block of mild cheddar while watching "Hey, Dude!" on Nickelodeon. Nowadays, I just don't have the time to sit down and enjoy a bowl of cereal (or three).

At this point I think I just buy milk for nostalgia's sake; it may take me two weeks to realize I have a half gallon of low-fat festering in the canister before I get the nerve to pour it out. If I do happen to get the urge to actually drink milk, I remove it from the fridge like radioactive waste, unscrew the cap, and sniff distrustfully. If it passes the sniff test, I have to prepare an exploratory sip to double check. Like a wine connoisseur taking their first mouthful of a vintage from hell, I draw it through my teeth, and cautiously move it from the tip of my tongue to the back of the mouth. It's almost a relief when I spitefully spit it out, tasting the cruel reality of spoiled milk. Truly, it is as if man's first nourishment turns against him in a bitter and wretched betrayal. It is a sight to see. With tears in my eyes and translucent streams of foul fluid running from my mouth down to my neck, I fall to my knees and cry out, arms outstretched. There will be no cereal today.

For some, this sour aftertaste can be considered the true loss of innocence in our society. For others, it might be the time you sold your virginity for drugs. But that is neither here nor there.