jasmine

In the bottle, this is raspberries and cream. On my skin, the raspberry fades, but it turns into a sweet currant coated in cream. It’s a big pinkish-red fruit swimming in swathes of white, but with just a hint of extra warmth to give it dimension. It’s a smell that makes me want to close my eyes and just breathe for a moment. It fades back after a bit. After losing volume, it starts to take on that artificial scent that I feel compelled to refer to as "chemical". Of course, it’s all chemical, but this just seems... off, somehow. It isn’t metallic, but it’s thinking about it. But only if I concentrate. Brushing past, it’s still lovely and fruity and decadent. I haven’t had a lot of success with food scents, but I’m giving serious thought to tracking this down on eBay now. (Or the forums... which is what I wound up doing!)

Simply cool, the essence of Lounge: the scent of a crisp pomegranate martini. I find myself puzzled: didn’t I review this before? Obviously not, since my imp is taped up. A bit of research reveals that I’m mixing it up with The Hamptons. Cosmopolitans should not be confused for pomegranate martinis, even if they are alcohol. Let’s see what this is like. Straight off the wand: nice! It does indeed smell like pomegranates and alcohol, with that chirpy, crisp edge so characteristic of a martini. There’s just enough fuzzy depth to the scent to remind me that it’s a perfume rather than actually being a cocktail, but that’s a good thing, not a bad one -- it makes it work-wearable. This is a fresh, summery scent, a playful juxtaposition of sweetness, tartness, and breezy ebullience. I find myself waiting apprehensively for the other shoe to drop. Realism only lasts so long, and the pomegranate begins thinning away when I smell it directly. It becomes a touch fragile and a touch artificial, which saddens me. However, the scent lingers around me in a cool, enthusiastic, reddish-pink cloud of fragrance, and there is nothing artificial about the throw -- just the direct application point. I am utterly charmed. [i realized I was at the top of a page, so I edited this to add the description.]

Initially, this scent is a pale yellow blend of citrus and frankincense. It’s complex, yet light, and distinctly refreshing. I’m not sure there’s actually lemon in it -- this really isn’t the strong Pledge-like lemon that appears from time to time. I think the components are more likely to be near relatives such as lemon verbena or benzoin. The frankincense promptly vanishes. I may have imagined it in the first place -- or it may be a different mint. There’s nothing quite high-pitched enough in the scent to be frankincense now, although there’s a deep cleanliness about it that definitely suggests some sort of mint in addition to the citrus. Despite this, it doesn’t smell like a detergent -- it’s too complicated to do so. This is quite lovely. In fact, this is reminding me a little bit of The Unicorn (one of my all-time favorites) and I find myself wondering the overlap might be. Without a note list for Sea of Glass, and with such a vague one for The Unicorn (“linden blossoms, white flowers, and a touch of sweet herbs”) I really have no hope of picking the two out, but I think the lemon-like scent present in Sea of Glass is also present to a much smaller degree in The Unicorn. I go off to snuffle my Unicorn, but the verdict is inconclusive; I don’t want to occupy my testing elbow with a scent I already know and love, considering that I’m just going to wash it off, and The Unicorn smells different in the bottle than on the skin (like most Lab scents.) Ah, well. As Sea of Glass fades, it changes to become thin, dry, and hollow, which saddens me. It was so attractive at first that I would have joyously worn it. Now it smells terribly familiar, but placing the scent is difficult -- there’s an ever-so-delicate ghost of floral above the lemoniness, and under it, there’s something like... well... (There was a pause here while I went off to sniff various things and try to find an appropriate analogy.) The light abruptly dawns, prompted by my roommate -- Sea of Glass is an aquatic. (Apparently, the name didn’t give it away to me, though I’m sure that it did to the rest of the universe.) Until this point, I’ve been too awed by the light, complex citrus to notice, but the aquatic note has come out, and it’s flat instead of full. There’s a saltiness to it that seems off when placed against the rest of the scent. Still, there are enough strengths to this scent to make up for its weaknesses. I should remember it for the future.

On the wand, it’s all jasmine, with that heavy, cloying weight that jasmine oil has in the bottle. As soon as it reaches my wrist, it manifests into a dark, sultry bouquet with the jasmine dominant and the ylang ylang underneath. Sadly, there’s a note in here that seems off-kilter... something slightly chemical in the blend. I would accuse Pannychis of having violets, based on the way my skin typically reacts to violets, except for the part where it doesn’t. This is a full, lush scent that smells like hot summer nights with broken air conditioning. It doesn’t smell sexy -- instead, it smells like lying around exhausted after sex when it’s really too hot and humid to have had any in the first place, but there was sex anyway, and now it’s almost too sticky to breathe. I am less than enthralled. After more time passes, the fullness fades into something cooler, like the moment when a summer night breeze ghosts through the open window of that room and carries scents of blooming things from outside. Finally, Pannychis strikes me as lovely. It’s a dark, sleek loveliness, not so strong as to be fully beautiful, and with something distinctly coy about it. Later, Pannychis thins out into a veil of sweat-scent. It’s not hot and sweaty now, but just... sweaty, with the barest hint of floralness. (I should note that this is definitely not a case of me smelling me instead of Pannychis-- it’s distinctly chilly in the room where I’m sitting at the moment.) It’s conceivable that the sweat-scent will strike someone else as desirable; it reminds me a bit of the skin-musk smell in Brides of Dracula that other people have applauded on me. Still, I’m not sure it’s worth the effort, since I’m not appreciating it on myself. While there’s an aesthetic that can be evoked with patience, I don’t think I’m likely to have patience with Pannychis in view of all the other lovely jasmine scents produced by the Lab. (And this was a jasmine scent throughout -- I could pick out almost nothing else, even when it went all sweaty at the end.)

This is a scent that I always think I’ve reviewed, but I haven’t. Therefore, it’s about time that I crack it open, even if apricot and peach usually twist on me. On the wand, I quite like it -- it is indeed apricot, and very strongly so, with just a hint like something floral. On my skin, the apricot settles in slightly, losing some of the buoyant fruitiness that made it initially so delightful. As the scent settles, it thins down and becomes strangely sharp. The clove manifests more strongly, and the apricot backs away. While I am not terribly enamored of the result, the apricot, unlike the peach, is not going doughy on my skin. I must remember this for the future. I want to like this, because the apricot didn’t go bad on me and I like apricot a lot. Unfortunately, this scent just doesn’t seem balanced. As it is, it makes me think of an air freshener -- the apricot is strong, but it doesn’t have a true apricot fullness, and the clove reduces the fullness that it does have. Given time, the clove fades and the apricot blossoms, with just a faint buzz to report that the clove was there in the first place. Sadly, I still can’t shake the impression of an air freshener. An hour later, March Hare stops smelling like an air freshener, and it becomes a low, subtle apricotiness that redeems some of its past sins. I could enjoy it on someone else at this stage, but it requires too much patience from me to reach that point.

I bought this in my first pack of imps, so I am surprised to find that I have not tried it or reviewed it yet. Fresh on my skin, it is a wash of dark plant scent and very unperfumey. Given time, it loses the plant aspect and turns chemical. And there it stays -- a dark, scooped-out, chemical scent. It evokes images of jagged, greenish-black leaves around the edges, but there’s nothing in the middle for them to frame or support. After a time, something slowly coalesces in the center, but it’s a faint wash of violet that lacks sufficient presence to wipe out the chemical unpleasantness. Later, the faint wash goes extremely pale, high-pitched, and soapy. My only possible response is “meh.” If I ever meet anyone who says “The Raven is one of my favorite BPAL scents!” then I want to smell what it does on them, because this can’t possibly be what it’s supposed to do. Postscript: the spot where I applied it rashed out and didn’t heal for a week. This is a scent I should never try again.

I always think I’ve reviewed this scent when I see it in my collection, but I actually haven’t gotten around to it yet -- I just keep mixing it up with the Red Queen. This is probably for the best, since it goes sharp and chemical as soon as it touches my skin. It’s like a pixellated flower -- where’s the real thing? Then the scent dissolves entirely into fragments. I am very, very puzzled. Roughly ten minutes later, Queen of Hearts reforms into a rather perfumey floral -- in fact, though the description asserts that it isn’t rose, it smells like roses to me. Despite being perfumey, it hasn’t gone to soap, so I’m not complaining. It’s a pinkish-red rose that is light, enthusiastic, and insubstantial. It’s a ditzy rose, but there’s no harm in it. I find myself thinking that would enjoy a shampoo that had this same light, pretty, perfumey rose scent. I don’t see myself revisiting Queen of Hearts often, but I may try hair-scenting with it sometime.

When I first apply this oil, I close my eyes slightly to savor it better, because Juliet is simply that beautiful straight off the wand. It’s a floral blend with the lightest hint of sharp sweetness that reminds me of white grape juice. The sharp sweetness mellows back after only a few minutes (such a pity!) but the floral aura surrounding it remains. My normal color-scent associations are deserting me; it’s just a lovely floral scent. After settling in, it becomes subtle, like a pastel wash of its first beauty -- something like a pale dawn sky, with many colors shimmering through it. I would have preferred the intensity to remain, but this has its own beauty. The grape sweetness is coming back gradually, too. There is nothing sexual about this scent, but it’s very feminine and very beautiful. I am enchanted. I am sure that I will wear this again.

Alice is delicate and sweet on the wand -- the sort of scent that fits a little girl. Like many of the Lab’s best scents, the notes blend into a wholly new creation independent of their origins. The honey doesn’t have the sensual strength that I associate with normal Lab honey. The milk comes through a bit like vanilla, and, though I can smell some sort of flower, it doesn’t smell outright like rose. I am unsurprised that this is so popular. It’s a light, innocent, breezy scent when I first apply it. Unfortunately, something in my skin chemistry contorts it, because it doesn’t take too long for the lightness to fade and something else to come out on my skin. I think the milk has twisted (I have not had good success with the Lab’s milk scents) but it doesn’t actively smell bad. The scent loses its vanilla aspect along with its lightness, and I would characterize it as sultry now. There’s a low floral aura flowing over a lower milk scent, and the milk isn’t spoiled, but it doesn’t smell fresh to me, either. This is... strange. In the beginning, I wouldn’t have characterized Alice as a “me” scent, but it did have charm. The end result isn’t something I want on my skin. I can’t say that it’s repellent, and someone else might like it, but I just don’t enjoy it. As a postscript, I stuck my wrist under my roommates’ noses, and they say this smells like a milk bath -- that the fault is not in Alice, but in me. I’m willing to believe that, as I don’t like the smell of milk and routinely think that fresh milk is spoiled-smelling. But as I keep sniffing Alice, it seems a bit lighter than it did before, and more creamy than milky. I’m not sure if this is the psychological effect of having two other people tell me it smells good, or if it’s legitimately metamorphosing into something I prefer. Hrm. I must come back to this one and try to figure it out again at some future date.

Sharp! There seems to be musk in this, but it’s a high-pitched musk... green or white, perhaps. I detect a hint of fruit, but it’s nothing so clear as a citrus or cherry... I would hazard that there’s bergamont oil in this. The sharpness goes away promptly, but the faint hint of almost-lemony fruit does not. Aside from the musk beneath it, I really have no clue what I’m smelling. It’s a greenish-yellow smell, like the skin of an unripe banana (but that’s a color match only -- there’s no banana in it.) If this were a Rappacini’s Garden scent, I would be unsurprised. It’s like the scent of some fleshy fruit, with the consistency of a mango or pear, that has been cut open while it’s still too green to eat. As time passes, the fruit aspect fades, and I start picking up a definite soapiness. The soapiness heralds blossoming rose, and, after a while, the soapy rose is dominating most of the scent. Even though it’s soapy, it’s not bad, but it’s very unexpected. And then the soap fades, and it's simply a rose scent with peculiar yellowish-green layers. I am puzzled, but not dismayed. It just isn't what I expected at all. #20 Love Oil is metamorphic and strange, and there are unappealing things about it, but I can’t find it in myself to dislike it. I will probably try it again another time and see if the verdict changes.

Hell’s Belle is a high floral on the wand, but it settles down into something a bit more dusky on my skin. This catches my attention much less than the fact that it burns my skin. The burning is faint, but never my idea of a good time. I’m going to give it a few minutes and see if it backs off. The stinging is continuing. However, the scent has backed off. It’s a subtle aura that smells a bit of sour sweat, only in a perfumey sort of way. Some of that musk must be skin musk, too -- it’s teasing at the edge of Play-Doh saltiness. All right, my skin is starting to welt in reaction to this, and it still smells really unimpressive. Time to wash off and avoid this in the future.

First applied, this is a crisp, cold scent. The impression I have is actually of a clear, deep blue with patches of dark green, like a twilight sky silhouetting trees... and I really like it. There’s something very clean about this, almost antiseptic, but it’s antiseptic without smelling of soap. It’s highly unusual, but quite interesting. Picking out notes is quite difficult -- none of these notes sound quite right for what I’m smelling. I would cautiously say that the labdanum and the wood are dominant, with the musk beneath, but this is one of those metamorphic miracles where nothing at the end smells quite like what went in at the beginning. It’s a unisex scent suggestive of confidence. It’s aloof, but it doesn’t have the pride that infuses some other scents -- it’s just... distant. The aloofness is more "look, but don’t touch -- because when you reach out, nothing will be there." Over time, Oblivion lasts with little metamorphosis. This makes me happy, as this is a surprisingly lovely scent. For the most part, Oblivion doesn’t say “me” to me, but I might choose this one for clubbing some night. (After all, while it’s not normally my worldview, "look but don’t touch" is definitely my vibe when I’m out on the town.)

Fresh off the wand, Lust tingles in my nose as a spicy scent. On my wrist, the spiciness fades immediately back to a low warmth. I definitely detect a floral in this, but I haven’t reviewed in a while and my nose is out of practice -- I can’t recognize it without checking the notes. That would be the ylang ylang... how appropriate. To my surprise, the musk isn’t going all evil on me -- in fact, it’s downright subtle beneath the myrrh and the ylang ylang. The patchouli gives a solid base to the scent, but it doesn’t smell outright like dirt -- a nice change as well. Given time to settle into my skin, this scent acquires a voluptuous, fruity aspect that is rather appealing (most likely the ylang ylang getting carried away). Regrettably, the fruit fades away after not too long, and the result is mostly myrrh and patchouli. I would like it better if not for the patchouli; I just don’t seem to be a big patchouli fan. Much later, the ylang ylang ghosts out once more in a low red aura, and then it fades in and out for a while. When I can smell the ylang ylang, I like this scent, and when I can’t, I don’t, but it refuses to be consistent. To address the name, since it is after all named Lust, I must note that it doesn’t smell like uncontrollable anything to me. I’ll grant that it’s sensual, and definitely a bit heady, and I wouldn’t wear it to work, but it’s more like lounging around getting drunk on red wine -- a controlled loss of control, as it were. But there are Lab scents I prefer in this vein, and I doubt I’ll revisit this one.

Aquatics make me hesitate, and while this doesn’t explicitly say "aquatic" in the notes, I’m fairly sure that’s what "ocean" means. Still, I love the name of this fragrance -- it’s evocative and beautiful. Thalassa, upon first application, is very fresh and faintly tingly in the nose. There’s a definite saltiness to it, which comes off more as sweat than as sea spume, but it’s the sweat of work instead of stinky sweat -- a light, refreshing overlay of salt upon an exotic green scent. I blame this on the jasmine, which gives this scent a lush fullness, thus evoking the physicality of sweat instead of the ephemerality of sea spray. There’s just a hint of green as well. This is very unusual and very nice. Between the jasmine, the greenness, and the aquatic bent that manifests later, the perfect term for this is “refreshing” -- it’s refreshing like rain on a summer day, without the stickiness of saltwater on your skin. The jasmine might be a bit too overwhelming to turn this into a summer scent, but I’m currently betting not. I didn’t expect to like this anywhere as much as I did. I’m going to keep it in mind for the future.

Freshly applied, this has a lot of throw. It’s radiating through the room with a vengeance. It’s a narrow brownish-green smell to me, not perfumey, but suggesting the ghost of perfume... as if flowers have been and gone, rather than the scent at the center of their petals. As time passes, this develops a freshness that I hadn’t expected. It’s still very greenish brown, with shadows in the scent, but it’s like the scent of wind roving over a dark plain... there are plants and dirt on the plain, yet the overwhelming scent is one of the wind. After a while, the sense of wind fades away, and it’s the scent of a still night instead, though the air still suggests that loam has been turned and green things have sprouted not long ago. It’s not a cold scent at all -- it’s a living one, tingling faintly in the nose. The scent of lost flowers still lingers. Weirdly enough, there’s almost a hint of sassafras in it. I don’t know that I’ll wear this again, since it doesn’t really mesh with my moods or inclinations, but it was interesting.

I will say this first and foremost: I'm not a leather fan. If this turns out to be (as it has been on so many people) the bottled scent of leather jacket, I will be unexcited about it. Still, I would like to be able to better recognize the Lab’s leather scent, and since I’m told this is basically Leather Single Note... well, here goes. The verdict is: De Sade smells like leather. Fresh off the wand, it’s quite chemical-ly to me, but it’s definitely a familiar chemicalness. (I always thought leather smelled sort of chemical on its own.) You know, that’s really all I have to say. “Hey! Smells like leather!” So... yeah. Like leather? Try this. For my part, I’m finished here.

Off the wand, or fresh on my wrist, this is a very full scent -- it’s sharp and spicy in the middle, with a herbal haze over it and a surprisingly sweet note on top. Despite the name, I don’t find it ragingly masculine; still, it’s certainly not feminine. As the scent settles, the sweetness fades. This scent doesn’t say “male” to me, but I think I would find it sexy on a man in a way that I wouldn’t on a woman. The clove and pepper are still dominating the scent fiercely. I believe that’s the moss I’m detecting as the herbal aspect; it’s become a lower support instead of a haziness around the main scent. I can’t find the patchouli, but I think it’s merged with the cloves; at least, I can’t pick it out explicitly. Something about this reminds me of a different version of Priala. It isn’t fair, because the two don’t share anything in their note lists, but as this fades, it suggests a sharper, more prickly, less impressive Priala to me. It must be something about the way the clove reacts on my skin. Over time, this settles down to a buzzing note on my wrist. It has definite endurance. I just wish it had more of its own identity to me.

Chintamani-Dhupa sent me into a sneezing fit just after I applied it. As a result, I don’t have any immediate impression for this scent. Once on my wrist, it smells very plant-like... not like a flower itself, but like the bulb of the flower, or a cut stem. Very un-perfumey and realistic. Interesting. There’s a faint brown hazy smell surrounding the plant-like smell, but I can’t be certain what it is from the list of notes provided, since I have no idea what half of them are. After a bit, the plant-like smell fades, and what remains is distinctly incense-like. It doesn’t smell like an ashtray, which is appreciated, but it smells majestic and reserved and slightly condescending. I really preferred it in the prior stage; this is a bit overgeneric. From there, it fades into generic Lab incense. A shame -- it was so interesting for a little while.

Freshly applied, this is surprisingly sweet (honeyed, perhaps, but not overwhelmingly so), with a pronounced lemony note that rapidly takes over most of the scent. Given a few minutes to settle, the lemon is still most pronounced, but there’s a dimension under it that prevents it from being Pledge-like; this is lemon with an echo, and the echo is softly golden brown. I think white musk might be involved. Because this doesn’t smell at all like typical “Lab incense” to me, I became curious enough to look up “Kyphi” in Wikipedia. From this, I learn that people are not totally certain what kyphi included, aside from honey, wine, and raisins, but some ingredients often mentioned are cinnamon, cassia bark, cyperus, sweet flag, cedar, juniper berry, frankincense, myrrh, benzoin, and mastic. Perhaps the lemoniness I detect is actually benzoin? I can’t be certain. I’m proud of having spotted the honey, though. I think there probably is myrrh in this, though I still suspect white musk. I would be willing to believe that there’s cedar or juniper, though I can’t outright detect it. I don’t think cinnamon or frankincense is in here. This lasts for a really long time without metamorphosing much, and it’s rather distinctive. It doesn’t speak to me on an emotional level, but it’s a nice lemon.

I’ve tried a couple of the Snakes without reviewing them yet (Australian Copperhead, Temple Viper), and I’ve discovered that they have the same amazing, non-metamorphic endurance that makes Snake Oil so remarkable. I’m hoping the same holds true for Coral Snake, because that first blast of fruit is a delight. It isn’t quite as fresh as a true fruit salad -- a bit more calculated, with the hint of spice waiting to bloom -- but the apple and orange together are just gorgeous. (If it hasn’t become obvious, I really like the BPAL apple.) Sniffing my elbow, I would swear I have banana in here, too. I’m sure that I don’t, since it doesn’t appear on the ingredients list, so it must be a skin chemistry thing. I’m not complaining, though it’s a bit bizarre. Over the course of a few hours, Coral Snake has settled into a slightly-fruity, slightly-sweet rendition of Snake Oil. The result is pleasant, but nothing worth raving about, particularly as it faded down to a low, subtle level once the first fruit blast wore off. Here’s the odd thing about Coral Snake: unlike many of the BPAL scents, it doesn’t have an evocative emotional core for me. I like Coral Snake very much, but it’s all aesthetic -- there’s nothing running under the surface. Strange. Still, fun fruit salad, yay. It gets points for that.

The World Ash. Nine woods, nine leaves, and three herbs each for Ratatosk and Vidofnir, with three final herbs to placate Nidhogg. This smells like power. I expected something woodsy and pretty, but this is stark and strong and wooded -- not merely the Norse tree, but the tree in all its glory, with Odin hung on the branches to learn the tongue of runes. I am taken quite aback. Once I recover enough from that first shock to pick out notes, I notice something minty on the top, with a strong, wooded base underneath. The mint isn’t high enough to be frankincense, but it’s too high to be spearmint and not sugary enough to be peppermint, so I’m stumped on a straight identification. As far as the woods go, I think there’s some cedar and some kind of pine, and maybe a touch of eucalyptus. I don’t have a prayer of identifying anything else in here. Yggdrasil is more masculine than feminine, but I don’t think it’s overtly out of place on a woman, and it appeals to me personally. It makes me want to sit up straight and stare the world in the eye without blinking. It’s a scent of command. And it has endurance: hours later, it’s still perceptible. I have no doubt that I will wear this again.

2007 blend... First reaction: "That would be incense, all right." Except that it isn’t. I checked the notes. The sandalwood is really dominating the scent, and there’s something lower in here, too -- I would accuse it of having patchouli save for the part where it doesn’t. Given a few minutes, something round and fruity comes through, and the sandalwood backs off to a polite level. There’s a darkness that still remains underneath, though, something not quite smoky, but very incensy. I think the fruit must be dates, though I don’t know for sure. The fruit is manifesting more, and I appreciate it. It’s very nice, whatever it might be... appealing and spicy. I think the florals are supporting it, as there’s no overt floral presence in the scent. The incense smell has retreated behind the fruit, but it’s still there. I wish it weren’t -- the fruit is nice, but the sandalwood just smells... not ashtray-smoky, but... a bit like charcoal, I suppose -- just somehow off when compared to what I’m reaching for. A good six hours later, Khajuraho has impressed me. The incense that I disliked lasted for half an hour, but the spicy fruit aftermath has lingered on for a good length of time, and I appreciate endurance in a scent that I enjoy.

On the wand, this is rose. On my skin, it blossoms instantly into something creamy and lush that has rose as an undercurrent, but which, on top, is just this flow of buttermilk. It’s a cream-colored rose with just a hint of gold on its petals. After a few minutes, that first rich wave fades away, and the result is a subtle creaminess with a hint of rose. I’m relieved, actually: while I was floored by the initial beauty, it would have been a bit overwhelming to wear around all day. This metamorphoses slowly into a soft, subtle pink springtime scent. I am charmed despite myself -- it isn’t the sort of thing that I would expect to like, but there’s an innocence and freshness about it that is difficult to resist. It’s a scent that has never been jaded. Sadly, the scent fades out in less than an hour -- I wouldn’t have minded more durability -- but there’s a certain symbolism in that, too. There are some perfumes where I smell them and think, "This scent smells like I feel". This scent goes the other way -- it almost convinces me to feel like it smells. A definite success, though a rather startling experience.

In the first application, this is a heavy initial sugar/caramel blast, with just the faintest trace of floral above it. The sugar is overwhelming. The caramelish note from Midway and Miskatonic is here, and I hope it doesn’t strangle me with ashtray nastiness again... especially considering how very, very long that note stays on my skin. After a bit of wear, something fruity came through, which I found very interesting. The caramel is still exceedingly heavy, and it’s definitely overlaid with smokiness (ugh), but the dark red fruit smell is appealing. I only wish I could detect more dark red fruit and less smoky caramel. The fruit is interesting -- it’s like cherry, but without that almond quality that so often accompanies a BPAL cherry. Looking back at the notes, I realize that part of what I am picking up as fruit is the coconut -- it fills in the gap between the cherry (which is probably currant) and the caramel. Interesting. I would be very happy to have more of the fruit aspect in here; I wonder if my skin amps the caramel beyond what it does for other people. This entire scent is very characteristically BPAL. If I smelled it without knowing that it was by the Lab, I might very well guess at it. It’s a little of this, a little of that, and a whole blend as a result... yet I don’t think it will stand out to me, because it lacks an individual personality. It’s just another Miskatonic-style scent -- this one with added fruit. I can tell it’s much more than that in the scent notes, but I can’t tell it on my skin. Although I like it for the fruit, it’s a pity that it’s not more distinctive among its sisters.

I picked this up on a whim. I thought it would be too smoky and strange, but I wanted to try it anyway because I love phoenix imagery. Better to know that I hated it than to want it and not try it, I thought. To my intense surprise, I like it -- and I like it a lot. It’s all warm and spicy, like cinnamon and clove, and it makes me think of a sidelong, smoldering smile. It smells like "well, hello there" -- like sexy that hadn’t totally planned to be sexy, but hey, sexy has occurred, so let’s enjoy the hell out of the ride. It’s bold and dusky and fearless. This is definitely a winter and cold months scent. It would be far too much in the summer -- chokingly so, if it amplifies in heat the way so many scents do. But it’s a curl of welcome warmth in the winter. After a couple hours, the cinnamon fades out, and then it’s just a dark, distinctive, incensy buzz in the nose. It still doesn’t smell like smoke, and I’m not complaining about that. I preferred the cinnamon, but this isn’t bad. What will the rest of the world think of Priala? I don’t know -- but it suits me very well. I feel good smelling it, and I feel good wearing it, so anyone with the privilege of getting that close will probably find out. Yeah, it’s like that.