It wasn't my choice, drinking warm milk. I did it. I liked it. I screamed for more.

I was an infant, dependent on a diet of nothing but warm milk. I was conditioned into it. I cried. The answer? Milk. Warm milk.

Now, when I can't execute three-point turns fluidly, or when I write a series of bouncing checks, I revert to this innate desire, this primordial instinct.

I buy a latte. Grande. And when I order it, I specify extra hot. Scalding. I hover over the barista station and shout, “Push it! Push it to 180! Don't stop!”

They look at me from behind the espresso machine like they're above it, as if they didn't come out like the rest of us, thrust into this world with an addiction to suckling. What did they drink when they were infants?

Coca-cola?

If iced lattes come up before my drink, I nudge them with my elbow. I nudge them hard.

It makes me sick that people drink milk cold when it's clearly against human nature.

Everyone wants to be in a milk ad.

Why? There's no pretense in a glass of cold milk.

It's direct. What you see is what you get. It's calcium. It's wholesome. It's the glue that binds this country together.

It's family values in liquid form.

It goes with all the food we like: hot dogs, hamburgers, pizza, steak. And don't forget the apple pie.

One time a Peruvian exchange student took her glass of milk and put it in my microwave. She heated it up. What's that about? If you're going to drink milk, do it right: do it cold.

It's the American way.

Plus, cold milk washes everything down.

It's like Drano for your esophagus.

If you're eating peanut butter and jelly, no worries. If Chips Ahoy! are stuck in your throat, pump it back. Maybe you're eating really hot buffalo wings. You're covered. Milk's a base.

Drinking warm milk is like burning the flag.

It's a matter of pride.