I hate it when that happens. I suppose I have something of a unique view on spoiled food, however. As someone who’s anosmic, I lack the usual human means of determining the status of food. Without someone else to sniff the carton for me, having a drink of milk is much like playing Russian roulette. Unless the item in question has obviously transmogrified into another form of matter not typically associated with an edible state, leftovers are a bit of a crapshoot for me.

In my world, expiration dates are not a suggestion. They are a dire warning, a portent of foul tidings carved on the stone slab covering the ruins of an ancient and terrible cyclopean city where vile beings from an alien dimension wish us gory misfortune.

Bright side: I can’t smell farts. Which means they will remain hilarious to me forever.