They told me this day would come. Oh, there were signs - messages in my mailbox, on my phone, following me, behind me at every corner. On every calender there lurked a single, burning square. They said it was my decision - that I'd willingly signed the contract - but who could believe such a thing? When I awoke in the ashen dawn it seemed a day like any other, quiet except for the distant honking of the crows. But there, outside my door, it was waiting for me - a small thing, innocuous in blue and white, about the size of an obese tomcat. It called out to me, with a a voice not heard but felt, a voice like a thousand tiny lapping waves. I was drawn towards the awful box and, without realizing what I'd done, I'd opened the lid to reveal the horrifying cargo. Nestled in the plastic womb between a pair of icy tablets lay the Thing - white, glistening, curved, with a single protrusion at its top. My hands moved unwilled to open it, and I saw it upended, and then I knew no more.
That was Tuesday.
That was Milk Day.
Having a milkman is pretty great. Ψ