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Obligatory current affairs reference

Obligatory current affairs reference published on

Now that I actually think about it, I do feel safer knowing that Cheney can’t handle a gun.

I am, after all, not his friend.

Off to request vampire porn, the Little Red Book, and that thing with the farting dog from inter-library loan.

I got ten DSH samples, the one I’ve got on now, “Silk Road,” is the ninth I’ve tried, and it’s the first one I’ve really liked just on its own. Bois du Chocolat works *really* well layered with BPAL’s Black Pearl, as I have previously indicated, but by itself it’s just incredibly harsh. Straight Bois du Chocolat’s tagline could be “Doing lines of cocoa powder as if you believed it was cocaine apparently, and it *hurts* – The Experience.” That would make a poor tagline, I think you will agree.

Anyway. Silk Road. Not shockingly, it’s mainly a tea scent, but it’s got lemon, bergamot, rose, and beeswax in it (I looked at the ingredients list – I think you can tell the bergamot pretty easily without it, though), so it’s a sweet one – it doesn’t just smell like Earl Grey, which I was kind of expecting and would have been okay with. And it isn’t all dry, either. I feel like with some of the other samples I didn’t like that the woman had one particular ingredient in each that she was really into, and she overdid that one so things came out kind of unbalanced, but this seems pretty well-balanced to me – the tea is kind of muting the other stuff now that it’s drying out, but not overpowering it.

In summary, Smells Pretty.

I’ll talk about the others behind a cut, because I know you’re all just fucking philistines anyway. (Should I capitalize “philistine?” I’m not going to. I’m not totally sure what ethnic group we’re even talking about there.)

( Musk is for ICKY BOYS. )

Continue reading Obligatory current affairs reference

My severed arm.

My severed arm. published on

One of the DSH samples I ordered the other day was “Special Formula X,” which you’re supposed to be able to use to test your skin type – if it smells “green,” the Lord God meant you to wear sweet, vanilla-y stuff; if it smells flowery, you’re one of those smug neroli types; etc.

The problem being that my arms both smell different.

My left wrist smells burnt, which means amber and spicy stuff, while my right is faintly sweet, indicating light florals. It is as if my body were at war with itself. Examining my right arm closely, I discover something I had never noticed before – a faint, jagged white scar just below my shoulder, below which my flesh seems slightly tighter.

Since I was young my right hand has tended, without any conscious thought on my part, to draw erratic, looping borders around a piece of paper or a desktop when left at rest for long. I had disallowed myself from putting these patterns to paper for many years up until recently recently, upon the urging of my calligraphy instructor at Miskatonic University who feels that my grip on the pen is too tight and controlled.

At first I simply drew wide loops bordering the page, but for several weeks – since around the night I saw the deer – I have felt confined to the outer corners of the page, filling the upper right with tight, thickly-knitted-together loops that I then fill in partly – a sort of shading, though the patterns have no depth – before withdrawing and concentrating on the lower right. I feel uncomfortable allowing these drawings to overlap with my handwriting. It seemed to me upon rising very early yesterday morning, having again heard the deer, that the shading might move over the course of the day – but of course upon examining my many pages full of such drawings, this proved simply to be a dream. The position of the shadows bore no relation to that of our sun.

I have identified a particular set of loops that my hand is particularly comfortable drawing – they resemble a pair of eyes, and while most often are on their own and independent of context, I sometimes seem insert them into a girl’s face. She is the only pattern that I can find no way to shade. I have begun to look around myself for her, because I surely know the details of her face very well, and I know that she is sick. She must be real; I’ve seen her someplace, though I’m sure I don’t know her name.

Perhaps I will find my answers in the dining hall. Where the sauteed spinach is.