A sparkling combination of Centifolia rose petals and Sicilian lemon over vanilla orchid and spring musks.
I think I understand the desire to make the title this clever nod to the star of the fragrance, but I wish they had just called this one “Prose” like they clearly were planning to, and I’m definitely going to just call it “Prose” when I talk about it aloud.
Although to be completely honest, my first idea as an alternative was “Prosé” as in rosé, so clearly the weird, mid-20s functioning alcoholic Bath and Body Works-bred nature of my brain isn’t really equipped to judge.
A couple of years ago I wrote 6 Scents 6 Selves after taking the 16 Personalities quiz, which is an illustrated, and more fun version of the Myers-Brigg test. Not only did I, for some reason, only focus on “masculine” and unisex fragrances, I read back my choices and some of them have me scratching my head.
So I’m going to revitalize this idea as a series. You know how YouTube lets you “premiere” videos now (so confusing to the Chromecast user honestly.)? Well this is the premiere. An introduction of sorts.
Christ, who’d would post a gallery about the second portion of their trip a month after their trip ended?! What is wrong with that person?
I’ve been busy okay. And being without proper wifi much of the time doesn’t help a stitch.
Since I’ve gotten back I’ve hit the ground running at 96 Spring St., the Google experiential pop-up shop that I was conscripted to work before my trip. Between my two jobs, plus freelance work, I’ve been slammed for time. Juggling everything is actually beginning to be a problem, so I’m thinking I’ll drop something in exchange for, ya know, my life.
I still really don’t have that much to say, but that I started writing and I’m going to keep writing until I can’t write it anymore, and then move on to the next thing I want to write, and hopefully self-loathing and fear aren’t going to appear for a while again soon (although if some things don’t change, I foresee those two squatting in my head-house in the near future, but that’s pessimistic and pessimism is what those two eat.)
Also, soon I will have more head space for things I actually want to think about, so that’s nice.
Plus, I’ll be able to purchase the books I want to read very soon.
This is Milo, aka star of @frenchiebutt on Instagram. I love him.
Why does WordPress keep changing its writing format. It’s like it’s in college trying out its sexuality. Or in high school trying out different outward identities.
Anyway, I haven’t posted in a while, and this is just to keep my blog from looking too empty. Otherwise I’ve been busy with school (I’m slotted to graduate in January if I pass this semester!) and work/not-working and pining for puppies and just everything.
Posts I have in mind that will hopefully come soon:
Articles about cool things if I can get them out in a timely fashion
A comparison on purported leather frags; some of which are lies I tell ya.
A comparison on cold weather gourmands, possibly.
The post on the preservation of New York City’s Chinatown that I still haven’t gotten to.
Maybe a mini-bio or two of people I like reading about, like Danny Meyers, Elizabeth Holmes
Alright, I have an exam in less than 4 hours, I should go.
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.
The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.