Diary of…Gregory Price. I didn’t like the name anymore.

Thursday: Stopped at a coffee shop. The milk in the carafe was bad, but the attendant refused to replace it. Apparantly, people had been complaining about it all day, and she was tired of being the butt of such a poor practical joke.

Friday: Replaced the milk (still bad) with milk of magnesia. Complained that the milk now tasted of chalk, but was unable to convince the attendant to replace.

Saturday: Brought a baby’s bottle filled with fresh milk and used it to lighten coffee. Attendant lectured me about bringing in outside refreshments, confiscated both coffee and bottle of fresh milk.

Sunday: Stayed home. Brewed own coffee. Unfortunately, the milk in the icebox smelled a bit off. Unable to drink coffee, too bitter. Experiment with drinking hot buttered coffee a failure. Irritable all day, despite hot bath.

Monday: Attempted to speak to manager about spoiled milk. The gentleman reeked of I know not what. When I presented the carafe to him, he denied that the milk “tasted funny,” and, in fact, drank it.

Tuesday: Infiltrated the preparation area of the coffee shop. Inspected milk. The dates on the cartons were appropriate; however, the pictures of the missing children on the backs of the cartons looked suspicously Victorian.

Wednesday: Mentioned coffee shop to my sister. We were going to visit it Friday afternoon, but mysterious fire has destroyed business. No fatalities. Went to Starbuck’s instead.

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