I’m not quite sure just what it is about milk that utterly repulses me. Perhaps it’s the opaqueness of it—or possibly its pure-white color. Whatever the absurd reasoning behind my fetish may be, though, I have recently come to terms with the fact that I make far too big of a deal out of drinking my daily, doctor-recommended glass of milk.
Milk is a problem that affects my life each day when my father tells me to drink the ghastly glass that is set in front of my plate with every meal. As a child, I used to spill my milk on purpose, and then cry loudly in hopes that this would save me the agony of drinking it. Nowadays, however, I usually just gripe about how disgusting it is and flat-out refuse to drink it. But recently I’ve matured slightly as far as my milk-drinking habits go. I now realize that, when it comes to drinking my milk, I have been making a huge, rather histrionic ordeal out of nothing for the past eighteen years—thus wasting priceless time and energy tormenting myself and others over something as simple and irrelevant as drinking a glass of milk. It’s been a rough journey, but I see now that, as vile as it is, I should not let my fixation with milk control even the smallest part of my life.
I believe that senselessly troubling oneself over trivial matters gets us nowhere in the big scheme of things. Meaningless qualms and worries only hinder our ability to live for the future. I believe in looking forward to a tomorrow which holds within it the potential to be brighter than today. There are very real and imperative problems in our world that many people (including myself) must cope with on a daily basis. Genocides, economic depressions, age-old wars, and starvation all plague our planet to a degree that is worse now than it has ever been before. Worldly moral is fading quickly—yet most people fail to recognize these problems as perilous, and continue to fret over minute problems in their personal lives. I used to be one of these people. I used to blow my problems out of proportion, and create a huge fuss over inconsequential occurrences. I’d even create these sorts of problems for others (sometimes by deliberately spilling the milk that always seems to show up to the right of my dinner). As I’ve matured, however, I see the error in this mindset. I now believe that there’s no use in crying over spilt milk—because milk (though it is absolutely sickening) is just that. It’s just milk.
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