Dear diary,

It’s been 97 days since the first sour cream appeared in the fridge. Or 98 days, It’s been hard to keep track since the stacked packages started covering the calendar. I’ve just made my last attempt at sealing of the fridge this morning. And for a few hours, I finally seemed to have achieved victory. But my hopes were crushed with a massive screeching noise as the chains gave way to the pressure of unfathomable amounts of ever more Wallmart-brand sour cream. God is dead, or at least he should be. I gave up praying to him by day 60, when the cream buried my daughter. Who would have thought that instead of fire, water, or blood, it would be sour cream that would end the world?