persianmouse

Surgeon General's Warning: This review has no nutritional or medicinal value. This review's claims of being an actual review of Robotic Scarab have not been proven. This review should be used for novelty purposes only. Please consult with your doctor before starting any new scent routine, except if your doctor is Doc Constantine, since he will only offer to make you smell of his seed. Note to readers: These are the same characters from my earlier tome, Galvanic Goggles Guy and His Amazing Clockwork Cock. They reappeared in my delusional late-night ramblings about Robotic Scarab, because apparently they didn't have anything better to do. Which I assume you do as well, if you took one look at this self-indulgent TL;DR review and decided to actually read it. You might want to go get a sandwich or something first. I'll wait. ... .....can you make me one too, while you're at it? Wait, what are you making? Egg salad sandwiches? ...nevermind. I'm good. Here begineth the Not-A-Review Review. You know that The Girl has not always been here. There was a time when there was a definite lack of a Girl Shaped Thing loitering about in your periphery. You know that The Girl is here now. You are as secure in that knowledge as you are in anything, which is to say, not very. But it is more likely then not, for although you are not above the occasional amusing delusion, it is unlikely you would have one this…peculiar. Quixotic. Loud. Prone to the throwing of things you’d rather not be thrown. Gently irritating in a suicidal way, like a moth constantly fluttering at your candle-flame. Fussy. She fusses. Over everything. You wonder how she has time to eat and breathe, so much does she find to fuss over. Over herself, over you, over the furniture, over being here, over the way she claims you stare. Over things that are happening, over things that already happened, over things that haven’t happened yet, over things that will never happen, over things she only dreams, over things you dream. Over the things in The Workshop, which you had to insist she not fuss herself over, which made her body tremble and her breath quicken and her eyes brighten and almost almost almost cry, but maybe you were staring again, maybe that's why. Over the food, over the dirt, over the smoke on the horizon and the smell in the air, over the birds in the sky and rats in your lab. She gave them names. Names. And cries when you take them apart. And gets mad at you, as though it were your fault. She fusses now, sitting in the dress you stole for her. She fusses with the hem, bunching it up, and smoothing it down, over and over, as though she is testing its structural integrity for possible catastrophic failure. She has been quieter lately, which you regard with high suspicion. She’s been subdued since The Incident In Town. That makes you itch in a way you don’t like. And you find you cannot focus on anything save her sullen posture. You should make her something, something she will like and will happify. She is so loud when there is something she likes. You hate her loudness, her noise, but you hate the absence of it now because…because she shouldn’t be quiet over something so trivial. She should be quiet because you have important work to be doing. She should be quiet for that, for you, not other things, not because of other people. You think you must hate her, and so will make her happy so you can stop thinking about it. Something she likes. You consider what it is that women like. Pretty, useless things, women like pretty, useless things. Flowers. Butterflies. Shit to stick in their hair. Ornate boxes too small to contain anything. Cats. Tiny pillows with tassels. Babies. You pull various implements and trays toward you, and set about the task of creating a pretty thing of no real use without having to go through the trouble of standing up or going outside. As you work, silent and focused as a stalking snake, The Girl gets up and walks in her irritating way over to the rat cages. To fuss, always to fuss. Stupid, useless girl. Those were all brand new rats she didn’t know, and now she will get attached to these, giving them names and fussing. You gave her her own rat for her to keep and fuss over in the privacy of her room, to get all her fussiosity out on that rat, and leave his alone. And now she will cry again soon, because she didn’t learn she never learns. Stupid, useless girl. The strap of her dress falls idly over her shoulder, like a lion rolling over in it’s sleep. It’s downward trajectory is a source of undue fascination with you. As is her small, scarred hand gliding over to restore order to her accoutermentical anarchy. It’s a different kind of itching, now. Stupid, useless girl. With a last twist of a screw, you finish the impromptu bribe. You hide the little thing in your hands and make a sound like a little bird, catching The Girl’s attention. Thoroughly caught, you drag her towards you with a jerk of your head. Her inevitable curiosity will lead her to you, even if she glares at you for calling her like a dog or particularly smart horse. And she glares, as you knew she would, and she still comes to you, as you also knew she would. She stands in front of you, arms crossed, annoyance and curiosity fighting a vicious civil war across her face, creating an odd twist to her lips you instantly remember forever. Her slight, sharp smell of something that might be flowers, might be holy, enters your space, utterly without permission. Grabbing her hand before she can jump away, you deposit The Gift Aimed To Distract into her warm palm. You’re staring now, but don’t care. Sitting solid and heavy and hot from your hands, a brass scarab beetle rests in the center of that small palm. Beetles are almost like butterflies, it should be sufficient. Her mouth opens slightly as she lifts it up higher for closer inspection, curiosity finally genociding the last of the armies of annoyance holding out along her brow. She jumps slightly, when the scarab begins to move, gently roving over her hand with no real destination. She makes a sound in between a giggle and a gasp, as it tickles its way up her finger. Her face has lost all previous sullenness, as she stares at it with the same slightly confused rapt amazement one normally sees in kittens. Your mission has been accomplished, and with great success. You have now mastered Giving Gifts To Women. A brand new skill you can add to your resumé. Builds large, mechanical bird-shaped aviation devices, horrible machines of death, and small curiosities to delight the womenfolk. As the robotic scarab reaches the tip of her finger, it shuffles its feet for a moment, before spreading it’s leather wings with a quick thuup. The Girl positively squeaks in delight as it takes off and instantly careens back into her head, tangling in her hair. She reaches up to pull it out, but you’re there before her, calloused hands digging into her soft, absurd hair. As you work to untangle it, pushing large sections of her pelt aside, you smell that smell again, something almost like flowers, something that might be holy, and you surreptitiously lean in to smell it again, deeper and longer, and you smell the warm leather and oil of the Pretty Useless Distraction, and it mingles with possibly pious flowers in such an obscene way. The Girl is being unusually docile, standing quite still and not fussing at all as you surgically extract the still squirming scarab. You will have to remember to throw bugs in her hair every time you want her to be quiet.

Oh, this smells like dangerous men. Not bad men, necessarily, but dangerous. The kind of man who's entirely too good-looking, and knows it, with an almost feminine mouth, curved at the ends to always appear smirking at a private joke, and feral eyes. Hair that looks fabulous and rakish, even whilst he engages in...strenuous activities. Looks just as home with a lily in his hands as he does with a billy-club, and he doesn't particularly care which one is in his hands. Charming, cultured, and clean. Has been known to cut with things other than his wit, but not often and never undeserving, if one has a rather liberal interpretation of the word 'deserving'. He looks at you as though you are the only thing in the room, which, depending on his mood and your history together, can be either very very good or very very bad. Is kind to animals, and especially favors cats. Somehow manages to keep his shirt sleeves pristine and white, but maybe he just buys new shirts, cause certain...liquids you just can't get out. Has an awful tendency to startle you by coming around corners, suddenly and slowly at the same time, full or mirth at how nervous he makes you. You think inappropriate things at the mere sight of him taking off his suit jacket, and he knows you do, and makes sure to look at you every time he does, so you know that he knows. He shaves with a fancy-handled straight razor in his practiced hand, and never cuts himself.

The scent is...difficult to describe. Imagine a man (well, mostly a man) of indeterminate age and ethnicity. He could a 20-something Greek, or a Filipino centenarian. He's not exactly attractive, but not exactly not. It's that he's a bit...peculiar-looking. Not in Steve Buscemi way, it's just that the light in his eyes and the twist at his mouth suggests a non-specific, generally-harmless madness, that, under the right conditions, can be both very specific and very specifically-harmful. Although it is doubtful that that madness will ever be directed at you, it's best to be careful never to give it reason to. He has a giant mechanical hawk that he uses for cross-country travel and speedy getaways. He calls it his Clockwork Cock, because the alliteration amuses him, not that he thinks it's a chicken. That would be madness. He wears a coat that has entirely too many epaulets, none of which are in the proper spot for an epaulet, and looks as though it outlived it's maker (which it has). His hair is remarkably clean, and curls in such a way that suggests it's attempting to escape. Looking at him, you can't help but hear a theremin's music, with the occasional terrible note from a melancholy oboe meandering through, kicking over trashcans and pulling up flower beds. He enjoys explaining and describing things, it pleases and calms him, makes him feel useful and a Contributing Member of Society, so, as part of Society, be sure and ask lots of questions. His mother died when he was small and she was still God. Upon meeting his father for the first (and last) time, he was convinced he was the Devil, and acted accordingly for a devout young man with many interesting devices hidden about his person. At some point, you will have to climb aboard the Clockwork Cock-That's-Really-A-Hawk, because the only other option is fire. While leaning on his back, clutching at the inappropriate epaulets and trying not to look at the disappearing ground and approaching clouds, you find your face closer to his than you find entirely comfortable. He's wearing a pair of ridiculous-looking, old-fashioned bomber goggles (for the bugs, you see). You, however, are not, for he has no spares, never expecting anything riding shotgun that was in a position or state to complain about such annoyances. His earrings are ornate and have no pairs, each one unique, each a intimate union of the organic and the mechanical. If you pull your face too far away from him, they become bothersome little windchimes slapping across your face. You're forced to press your face closer to his, before that steel-and-claw one takes out a tooth. You see him eye you sideways for a long moment, and then grin, or at least pull his lips away from his teeth, reminding you that his canines are entirely too long for comfort. As you try not to look, and try to come up with some questions of cumulus clouds that will require a long and involved explanation, your nose presses close to his temple and the smell of his sweat on his skin mingles with the sweet smell of the old leather of the goggles, the odd cleanliness of his hair, the hot metal of the Clockwork Cock, the atmosphere and the fear and the tension and the canines too long for comfort. That's what Galvanic Goggles smells like. More or less.

So, a lovely little robin gifted me this lovely little UNRELEASED PROTOTYPE Room Spray. I have no idea if it will ever be released to the general populace. Ossuary smells of bones. Dry bones. Lovely unstrung bones. And old carved stone and dirt. And something else....the sweep of fabric? It's heavy and soft, and smells almost of the absence of scent. It's hard to place. There is also the sharp smell of something akin to vetivert that reaches and stabs me the olfactory nerves like it wants to steal my wallet.

I GOT ME SOME INTERGALACTIC! AND IT IS NOTHING LIKE I EXPECTED. SO MUCH SO THAT IT GAVE ME YELLY! DISEASE. I EXPECTED THE DISILLUSIONED LOVECHILD OF NEO-TOKYO AND STARDUST, OUT TO MISSPEND ITS YOUTH AS BEST IT CAN. WHAT I GOT WAS GRANDMA'S FRUITCAKE. BUT NOT REAL FRUITCAKE, JUST THE CONCEPT OF FRUITCAKE. LIKE IT SMELLS LIKE THE GUY WHO FIRST THOUGHT "Hmm...dense dark bread that is simultaneously stale and syrupy, riddled with technicolor "fruit" and hard black crunchy things you hope are burnt nuts, but which could just as easily be char-broiled kidney stones for all you can determine...SOUNDS DELICIOUS!". I EXPECTED ZIGGY STARDUST. I GOT THE STARLAND VOCAL BAND. I EXPECTED 'Ground Control to Major Tom...'. WHAT I GOT WAS 'Skyyyyy-rockets in flight!'. I EXPECTED The Velvet Goldmine. WHAT I GOT WAS Glitter. I EXPECTED DEBAUCHED, BI-CURIOUS BOYCHIKS IN TIGHT METALLIC JEANS, BIG WHITE FUR COATS WITH NO SHIRTS UNDERNEATH, GLITTER EYELINER SMEARED ACROSS THEIR LIDS LIKE DELICIOUSLY DIRTY CLEOPATRAS, LISTENING TO THE COWBOY JUNKIES COVER OF "Sweet Jane" ON AN OLD RCA VICTROLA AS THEY LAY PRONE AND ARCHED UPON VARIOUS CUSHIONS AND PILLOWS AND SILK SARIS IN A DETERIORATED OLD VICTORIAN PARLOR, FLORAL WALLPAPER FADING AND PEELING AND WATERSTAINED, STRAY KITTENS KITTENING ABOUT THE MAN-PILE. WHAT I GOT WAS SOME EMO HIPSTER FUCKWAD IN HIS SISTER'S JEANS, WHOSE NOKIA PHONE PLAYS A Panic!At The Disco SONG WHEN HIS MOM CALLS. ....WHY DO I ALWAYS ASSOCIATE VICTROLAS AND GRAMOPHONES WITH SEX?

*picks up imp of Wilde* *inhales deeply* Does somebody smell like foppish, bisexual, scathingly witty debauched Irish poet in Victorian England? I think somebody does! Yes they do, yes they do! "I say, I do seem to smell like lavender, pith and latent homosexuality. And foppish sleeves. I detect a hit of foppish sleeves." Yes you do, Oscar, yes you do. You smell just like a man should. "I can't eat muffins in an agitated manner. I'll get butter on the sleeves." ...okay. "Well aren't you a lovely young thing. Such a face. You know, a man's face is his autobiography. A woman's face is her work of fiction." Really? Oscar you surprise me. You know something about women? Will wonders never cease... "American, are we? America is the only country that went from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between." Touché. "You know, there are no moral scents or immoral scents. Scents are interesting, or they are not." Well, what about Pickleushka? "Well, yes, that one was a bag of crap on a stick." Indeed. "Either that avatar goes, or I do." ....fuck off, Oscar. *cuddles Snape's doe*

I was worried about this one, as folks were saying it smells like orange creamsicles, and I don't like foody or orangey smells. And it does indeed smell like orange creamsicles, but that's okay, cause OHHHHHHMMMMMMMMM...it smells like the sexiest damn orange creamsicles EVER. I did not think that one could combine sex and orange creamsicles, but holy crap Beth did. It's just so goddamn Nomable. And its a powerful scent too. It's like, Tori Amos fellating an orange creamsicle while having a orgasm as she rides Trent Reznor, or some other crazy sexy dangerous thing like that. It's just wonderful. *sniffs arm* It's amazing. *sniffs again* It's fucking awesome-gelato with a side of win-sprinkles. *sniffs, pauses, then quickly sniffs again* It is the paramount of...of.. *sniffs slowly* *stares at arm* ...of...the thing..is...uuhhhh... *sniffs cautiously, unsure* ...uumm..uhhh..wuhhh.... *sniffs again, a look of hopeless hopelessness spreading across her face* *mouth agape* *eyes unfocused* ...oh gods...oh sweet merciful Zombie Jesus...NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! *face cracks into the picture of religious despair* *falls to her knees* NOOO! *bangs fist on ground* NO! NO! NO! FUCK NO! IT"S NOT FAIR!! *wails tormentedly* IT TURNED! IT TURNED ON MY SKIN! IT TURNED LIKE BENEDICT ARNOLD! IT TURNED ROUND, RIGHT ROUND, LIKE A RECORD, BABY!! IT TURNED HORRIBLY SO HORRIBLY! *bites lip* *casts eyes down towards the hell she is now in* *gasps for air* ...*gasp*...it smells...it smells like... *squeezes eyes shut* *takes deep breath* IT SMELLS LIKE BEEF! WAAHHHHH-HHAHAAA!!! *rends garments* BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEF!!!! *pulls hair* BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEFFF!!!! *ululates wildly* !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *collapses, bemoaning her fate* *lays on the ground, unable to support herself under the weight of her despair* *crawls on her belly over to the Tree of Despair* ..........beeeeeef!

So, a lovely little robin gifted me this lovely little UNRELEASED PROTOTYPE Room Spray. I didn't receive it in an order or anything, so I have no idea if it will ever be released to the general populace. This is my favorite of all the prototype sprays, but I did not think it would be. Upon smelling it, the first thing that came to mind was childhood summers with my brothers. But not the summers out in the woods, the summers in the city, summers in parking lots and rooftops and racetracks and playing in the streets. It also reminded me of Grandpa Mouse, who used to race horses and then cars, back when my town was still a carnival town (yeah yeah, I come from carnies, and don't tell me that surprises you). It smells like that sandy dirt you get in parking lots, that dead dirt that doesn't smell like dirt at all, but of heat and metal, and dirty Keds sneakers and hot hair and lemon Italian ices and of breezes that carry the smell of exciting things happening somewhere you aren't.

So, a lovely little robin gifted me this lovely little UNRELEASED PROTOTYPE Room Spray. I didn't receive it in an order or anything, so I have no idea if it will ever be released to the general populace. SWEET FANCY CHRISTMAS CHRIST ONNA CRUTCH, THIS IS GINGERBREADY! Goddamn, chillax there, room spray. This is a room spray that has no indoor voice, it's always "GINGERBREAD GINGERBREAD MOTHERFUCKING GIIIIIIIINGEEERRRRBREEEEAD!!!" It's a room spray that really really really wants to be your friend, whether you like it or not.

I am far too amused at the fact the the Leipreachan imp's label is printed in green ink.

Metal Phoenix smells like Skittles and hot buttered popcorn. I get no metal, no carnation, no honeysuckle, no musk. Just Skittles sprinkled over hot buttered popcorn. ....LOLWUT? This is so weird. I wish I could describe it further, but, uh, that's all I got. Skittles and popcorn.

My election blends just came! Here's some shiny new label art.

Imagine you go to visit a candy factory. The Head Candyman takes you on a tour of said factory. You wear a little pink hard hat. He points out the Marshmallow Puffing Mechanism, the Cotton Candy Gin, the Pop-Rock Fizzierfier, the Peppermint Chipper. He shows you a small, gun-like gun that shoots out nonpareils. He shows you the football stadium-sized warehouse where they store the candy corn during summer, spring and winter, and tells you that no new candy corn has been made since 1965, they just collect the old candy corn from the dumpsters (because no on ever eats it), wash it off and resell it. And then he brings you to the Chocolate Boilers. It's hot, and you begin to sweat slightly. Huge iron vats, with decades of chocolate patina on the sides, boil with lava-hot chocolate, as skilled choconeers dangle above the vats, away from the scalding, delicious steam, and wind the clockwork stirring arms. Its far too dangerous to manually stir it. Pipes run from boiler to boiler, in Suessian tangles, all the way outside to their sources, four huge wooden silos, tall enough to rival any tower in New York City. Written on the sides of the silos, in huge army lettering, are 'MILK', 'SUGAR', 'COCOA BUTTER' and 'COCOA POWDER'. As if pulled by some unseen force, you are drawn to the Cocoa Powder Tower. With shaky, uncertain steps, you climb the side the creaking tower. Even from out here, you can smell a tantalizing tang of its contents. Higher and higher on the slippery rungs you climb, as your tour guide watches with a wicked, knowing grin. He's seen this many times before, he knows how this play ends. He lights up a candy cigarette and waits. At the top of what should barely qualify as a ladder, there is a tiny platform barely big enough to kneel on, and a small round door with a wheel on it, in the manner of a submarine door. The wheel is rusty, ancient, eldritch, and all but screams not to come inside anything with that as a doorknob. You grasp it anyway, and push with all your might. It turns out despite its appearance, it can open with little effort, and you nearly push yourself off the platform in you over-exertion. The little round submarine door swings open, and the most fantastically terrifying effluvium smacks you in the face, and wraps around you like a murderous blankie. Cocoa powder, deep, rich and intense. And great. Godlike in size. God Cocoa. You stick your head inside, trying to get closer to the scent, as it quickly becomes not enough to merely sit outside and enjoy it. You need more. You need it so badly, you think you just might die. There is little light inside the silo, whatever can get past your trembling frame in the doorway. It dimly illuminates a few feet, leaving the rest of the vasty space in tantalizing shadows. But what you can see are hills and valleys of soft powdery brown delight. You push your shoulders through, blocking out more light, feeding the hungry shadows. You reach out with a trembling arm, but no! the rolling knolls of cocoa are just out of your reach! Damn it. You scuttle closer to the edge of the doorway, half your body now consumed by the silo, all light, save a few lonely shafts pushing desperately around you, now blocked out. You stretch out with both arms, like a child to its mother, and your fingertips barely brush the mounds of powdered heaven. Quickly you bring them to your mouth, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through you, and lick your hands in a most unbecoming manner. The cocoa is quickly consumed, but you need more, and you begin to gnaw at your own fingers. Sweat drips from your brow, your eyes widen and dilates, your mouth opens, lips trembling, panting, your chest heaves, your gut twists, your body twitches, needing. One last, lonely little neuron in your brain warns you to pull back, that there is danger ahead, but that is a whisper in a hurricane. Desperately, needfully, heedlessly, lustfully, you fling yourself forward, into the shadowy, chocolate-scented void. And, for a moment, as you lay in the soft, delicate powder, mouth open, body joyfully spasming, eyes rolled back in divine ecstasy, everything is heaven. And then you sink, consumed by cocoa, gently suffocating while everything goes dark, but you really just can't bring yourself to give a fuck. This is Boomslang.

*sigh* Alright....I give up. I cannot win against you. You are just too strong. And so blindly optimistic and full of go-getterness that you remind me of Ronald Regan if he were an incontinent-but-well-meaning dog. I didn't want to like you. I didn't want to need you. Thinking of how I've become so dependent on you lately sickens me. How weak and needy I have become. But no matter how many times you beckon me, tempt me like some hideous siren, how ever many times I come back to you, I will never love you. You can never make me love you. In fact...I hate you. I hate everything about you. Everything you're made of and everything you exude. Your very make-up offends me. When you try and do your...thing, I just fall asleep, that's all. And that's a first, believe me. Usually I can be up all night with my other..."friends". I wish I never met you. I really mean that, TKO. From the bottom of my bitter black heart, I mean that. I don't even like the way you smell, you contagious lavender cloud, it reminds me of Gammy Owls "Home Remedies Fer What Ails Ya". You smell like old ladies and sickness. Maybe that's why you work. Because you make me think I've five and sick again, and all you do is sleep when you're sick. And five. But that doesn't make you special. That doesn't make you worthwhile. It just makes you a liar. But oh...how I need to hear those lies. I loathe you. But not half as much as I loathe myself. But don't get cocky. There will come a day, oh how there will come a day, when I don't need you anymore. When you sit alone and unused and unneeded and superfluous all alone on the shelf. But oh, I won't get rid of you, send you off to some other poor, unfortunate, insomniactic soul. No no, that is too good for you, my precious liar. No, you will sit there, upon my dusty shelf, as a monument to my renewed independence, a little gaudy souvenir of my trip to Co-dependence Hell. A mockable, detestable thing. And each night, in my Hello Kitty pyjamas, I will pass you and I will pass you by, and not invite you into my bedchamber that night. You can spend the night alone, cold, with only the memory of ever being needed to keep you a lonely little company. And how I will pity you...

I loooooove Pollution. It smells like Sexy Dad. But not your dad, so it's okay to find him sexy. It smells like a DILF. It smells like graying temples and beard stubble and tweed jackets with a black comb in the inside pocket.

Mechanical Phoenix: All manly and dirty and grungy with a splash of classic men's cologne to try and cover it up. Whereas Pollution was Sexy White-Collar Dad, MP is Sexy Blue-Collar Dad. Yummy.

White Phoenix: Sweet (but not cloy of foody) Sandlewood. Light but not airy, but still very strong. Perhpas it's better to say gentle and strong. I smell the sandlewood, magnolia and sugar cane the most. No lavender at all. I think this is the scent I get the most compliments on when I wear it.

Green Phoenix: Fruity Minty Clean. But not in a toothpaste way. Smells like the fruit aisle of a gourmet foodporium.

It does smell a bit like cough syrup in the bottle, but once it hits my skin, it smells like a lovely sweet musky cherry. And I normally hate all cherry scents, since they don't actually smell like cherries (I had a cherry tree in my backyard growing up, so I know what they smell like), but this one is gooood.

I love the Enraged Bunny Musk. It smells like wild cotton (not that nasty Bath&Body Works Clean Cotton smell, that smells like laundry detergent), and early spring flowers, like clover. It smells...wicked and clean and cute at the same time. Like a porno set where all the performers are anthropomorphic rabbits. Like furry porn brought to life. In a cute and adorable way.

In my spreadsheet, my review for Catherine says simply "smells like a deadly baby". I'm trying to figure out what I meant. It went kind of baby-powdery on me, but it retained some kind of sharpness and depth to it as well. The rose was the most predominate note.

... Thick black currant with the darkest, deepest myrrh, a drop of bitter mimosa and the slightest touch of mandrake dust. I love the smell of mimosa flowers. I have to restrain myself from rubbing all over mimosa trees when I pass them on the street (the owners of the yards they are in tend to frown upon it, or worse yet, encourage it). I wanted to like this. Sadly, I did not. There is a note of crushed mimosa in there, but it's overwhelmed by the dusty-dirt smell. Dusty dirt and decaying mimosa. And dirt.

Szepasszony smells like I think 13-year old boys think a girl smells like. Delicate flowers, soap, powder, clean and overly sweet, with that heady perfume note just taking over the whole room.

I keep getting frimped with Nephilim. The Frimp Faeries just must think I will love it. Alas, I do not. To me, it smells like pine bark and cooking herbs. Someone's making soup in the forest.

Smells like this eye-peeling, vaguely orange air freshener my dad uses in his car. DO.NOT.WANT. He also has the heat going on full blast during the summer. I don't know why. But apparently my dad's car smells like Vlad the Impaler. Interesting. I also used to know someone who drove an Impala, and named his car Vlad. Not everyone got the joke.