expiredmilkn lies blogs

Back in the lat 80s and early 90s germs weren’t something you dodged—they were part of the game. Sharing sodas was practically a blood oath. Everybody got a sip, but there was one sacred rule: you never—ever—drank the last warm inch of backwash. That wasn’t soda anymore, that was soup. Whoever was slowest to grab the can got stuck with it, and they carried that shame all summer.

And hose water? Didn’t matter whose house it was—we were nomads of hydration. See a hose, turn the nozzle, and suddenly you had a line of kids waiting their turn. First blast came out hotter than coffee, but then it cooled into that crisp, rubber-flavored goodness. You just had to remember the one condition: roll it back up and shut it off. As long as you did, no adult complained. That hose was Switzerland—neutral ground for all kids in the neighborhood.

Drop your food? Invoke the three-second rule. Sometimes extended to ten if you blew on it dramatically, like that somehow sterilized it. If it hit the grass, bonus seasoning. Nobody panicked, nobody reached for sanitizer—we just wiped it off on our shorts and kept moving. Our immune systems weren’t fragile—they were trained assassins built on dirt, cafeteria pizza, and possibly lead paint chips. And somehow, we were fine.

Now jump-cut to today: get within three feet of someone and you’re one cough away from a hazmat audition. People treat tap water like it was filtered through Chernobyl, and handshakes feel like a felony. I joked last year about going “full vintage”—tap water and a sandwich seasoned with floor spice. Relax—joke. But I do miss the motto: God made dirt, and dirt don’t hurt.

Truth is, life used to be messy and fun. Today it’s wipes, sprays, and lattes filtered more times than your ex’s selfies. Maybe we’re “safer,” but I’d trade a little sterile perfection for a chug of hose water and a backyard game that ended in grass stains instead of group chats.

Expired Milk n Lies—where nostalgia comes unwashed, like it should.