persianmouse

*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.

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.

 

The Tea Room smells of Tea and Sugar.

 

Actually, it smells just like that instant ice tea mix you can get at the grocery store.

 

But in a good way. I like that smell.

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

 

This one was a real morpher. In the imp, I get lots of hairspray and skin musk, and it amused me that revenge would smell like a pissed-off goth teenager. Then, after I dab a bit of it on a tissue, it morphs into something real soft and pretty, but lethal at the same time. Like a lady in a parlor, smiling in a seemingly innocuous manner over her teacup at woman who doesn't know she's her enemy, nor the peril she is in. Delicate cruelty. Soft ruthlessness. But justified at the same time. Also, there was a touch of something like baby powder (but in a good way), which made me lol. Revenge is I get you pregnant! Haha! Your womb is filled with my revenge!

 

 

If anybody was wondering what the Irish bottles look like, I received my order today. Looks like we get a special frimp called Leipreachan with the order too.

 

 

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.

 

I got a frimp of this scent with my purchase of Toad Hall at Bat's Day.

It was not something I ever planned on purchasing, because I was all 'Eww, dessicated skin and dirt', but I am so happy I got a frimp of it, because I love it!

In the imp, it smells of dirt. Dirt dirt dirt.

Once on, there is a warm sweet smell that reminds me of fear, or children. Or fearful children. It's like sweet, but not. It was bothering me that I couldn't place what the smell reminded me of, but I just finally figured it out. Candied ginger.

The candied ginger not seems to overtake the dirt smell the longer I wear it. I am really surprised at how much I enjoy it. Its completely evocative of its inspiration.

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.

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.

Troll smells of smoke and rocks. I can't get anything else from it. It's exactly what a troll should smell like, but it's not something I would wear as a scent. For I am not a troll, but a dainty little fairy, dammit.