Mallory Reynolds and the Chunky Milk Betrayal

Mallory Reynolds and the Chunky Milk Betrayal

Mallory awoke in what could only be described as a fog of regret, dehydration, and faint echoes of karaoke. Her mouth tasted like she’d licked the inside of a battery. Her mascara was smeared across her cheek in the shape of Oklahoma. She shuffled to the kitchen like a wounded raccoon, clutching her skull and muttering, “Never again,” which was a lie she’d told herself 742 times.

What she needed was cereal. Sweet, crunchy, artificially colored cereal. The kind meant for toddlers with hyperactivity disorders. She found a dusty box of “Sugar Clown Krunch”—a discontinued monstrosity with a horrifying mascot and 47 grams of sugar per serving. Perfect.

She poured it into a bowl with the grace of a cement mixer, then opened the fridge to grab the milk. The jug was heavy. She gave it a sniff. “Hmm,” she mumbled. “Might be fine. Might be a biohazard. Let’s roll the dice.”

Mallory sat cross-legged on the couch, blanket wrapped around her like a human burrito, and began eating. One bite, two bites, eight glorious, crunch-coated spoonful.

And then—it happened.

On bite number nine, she felt it. A texture. A resistance. A glorp.

She froze. Chewed slowly. Tilted her head like a confused pigeon.

Something was... curdling. Inside her soul.

She looked down. Floating in her cereal like sinister little marshmallow impostors were white, lumpy blobs. She blinked. They blinked back.

“NOPE!” she shrieked, dropping the spoon, which landed in her lap with a wet slap. She launched the bowl into the sink like it was radioactive. Which, arguably, it was.

The milk jug, upon closer inspection, had expired three weeks ago. The expiration date simply said, “WHY THO.”

Mallory stood in her kitchen, milk dribbling down her sweatshirt, eyes wide with the kind of existential panic that only fermented dairy can bring.

She called her best friend Helen.

“HELEN. I JUST ATE SOUR MILK CEREAL.”

Helen paused. “How many bites?”

“EIGHT.”

“…That’s not breakfast. That’s a hate crime.”

“I think I have internal cottage cheese now. Should I call 911 or like... a priest?”

“Both. And burn your tongue off.”

Later that day, Mallory tried to drink a mimosa “to kill the bacteria.” It did not help. She burped and smelled fear.

And that, children, is why Mallory now sniffs everything like a suspicious raccoon before she eats it. Even bananas. Especially bananas.