There is something deeply unsettling about oat milk. You know it. I know it. We all feel it, but we drink it anyway because we live in a godless world where nothing makes sense, up is down, and dairy is somehow offensive now.
I don’t know when it happened, but at some point, regular milk became uncool. Like, if you drink whole milk in public, people look at you like you just clubbed a baby seal. “Ew. You drink COW milk? Like, from a cow?” Yes, Jessica. From a cow. Like my ancestors before me. Like the pioneers who crossed treacherous lands so I could have the goddamn right to enjoy a glass of cold, creamy sustenance without being judged by an oat-loving cultist.
But then, because I am weak, because I crumble under pressure like a sandcastle at high tide, I tried oat milk. And I hate to say this. I hate to admit it. But it was… fine. No. No, it was better than fine. It was actually kind of good.
And that made me furious.
Because now I had to deal with the cognitive dissonance of enjoying something that, on principle, I should despise. Milk comes from things with udders. That is the rule. That is the law. If oats can make milk, what’s next? Peanut butter without nuts? Meat without animals?
Lies. All of it.
And yet, here I am. Oat milk in my coffee. Oat milk in my cereal. Oat milk staring at me from my fridge like it owns the place. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I stand for. All I know is that I have been compromised, and I may never recover.