doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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A calming, affirming fragrance to help motivate Santa through the daunting tasks which await him year after year: sugar plum lavender marshmallows.
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A festival of frights. A jolly, hulking golem dressed in a gloriously tacky sweater: honey-dipped amber and pocket-warmed gelt, a basket of pumpkin rugelach, a smushed sufganiyah, and a touch of latke grease.
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The scent of ghost stories told beside a crackling fireplace, with garlands of evergreen hanging beside October’s carved pumpkins. Hearthlight and jack o’lanterns cast shadows on cobwebbed corners. Candied orange peel, mulled cider, smoked myrrh twirling through a cranberry garland, balsam resin and amber-drizzled pumpkin, smoldering hearthwood, and the soft honeyed glow of dripping beeswax.
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“O wilt thou go with me, thou loveliest boy? My daughter shall tend thee with care and with joy; She shall bear thee so lightly thro’ wet and thro’ wild, And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to my child.” An ethereal lure crafted with milk and honey.
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O, who rides by night thro’ the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. The pale sugared blossoms of innocence wrapped tightly in sleet-soaked arms. Vanilla bourbon, cream peony, and white carnation enveloped in a warm, protective fortress of tonka, white cedar, orris root, red amber, and leather.
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“O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?” — “O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the grey willow that danced to the moon.” Moonlit mist clinging to skin the color of ghost lilies, pearlescent and cold. A spectral musk possessing the sheen of river water at night.
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(The Erl-King speaks.) “O come and go with me, thou loveliest child; By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled; My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy, And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.” The promise of dew-bright meadows and sugar-spun toys, gleaming and hollow: apple peel, wild violet, meadowsweet, and candied blood-red fruits.
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“O, father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?” — “Be still, my heart’s darling — my child, be at ease; It was but the wild blast as it sung thro’ the trees.” A desperate attempt at comfort and assurances of safety. Honeyed oats, toasted clove, hazelnuts, hay, and skin-warmed wool.
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Sore trembled the father; he spurr’d thro’ the wild, Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child; He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in dread, But, clasp’d to his bosom, the infant was dead! The death of innocence, a dirge for joy: black currant, labdanum tar, and myrrh.
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“O come and go with me, no longer delay, Or else, silly child, I will drag thee away.” — “O father! O father! now, now keep your hold, The Erl-King has seized me — his grasp is so cold!” The spell breaks like a sudden crack in an ice-bound lake. Opoponax incense and black oud plunging into a heart-stopping shiver of ambergris accord and eucalyptus leaf.
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Ladies, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.” There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine/feminine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up. Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired. So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive! This scent debuted in 2023 as “Is He, You Know” but since this is commonly deployed as an equal-opportunity aphorism, we’ve created a campy companion scent: sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, sugar cane, and a sprig of lilac.
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Tartly sweet, brusquely pavement-kissed, zesty with fermentation, dusted with leaf-litter, and relished by opportunistic squirrels craving a tipple.
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Every leaf tells a story.
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A 99-cent drugstore eyeliner freshly melted with a Bic lighter, in concert with the leathery metallic gleam of a well-loved pyramid spike bracelet.
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Lavender cotton candy fur and vanilla popcorn balls, sent skittering out of the kitchen with a good-natured wave of our polished wood rolling pin.
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A sturdy but soft lavender cotton twill, lightly flour- and sugar-dusted, with deep pockets full of kitchen mysteries.
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A chewy delight made from a blend of rice flour and purple yam, fried in lavender-infused oil and dusted with granulated sugar.
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A row of plump, cardamom-spiced sweet buns overflowing with pooflets of lavender cream and almond paste.
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An aromatic crusty loaf covered in pre-bake slashes to create a floral pattern on top, flecked with flax, sesame, pumpkin seeds.
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A rapidly melting tower of vanilla ice cream thoroughly glooped with marshmallow sauce and amethyst syrup, speared with shards of waffle cone.
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A goblet of pale liquid gold infused with an almost iridescent shimmer of lavender essence.