05/31/2021

4ajbukoshka
1 Review
Translated
Show original

4ajbukoshka
Top Review
15
Bitrex in the laundromat of dreams
Before I tested L'Heure Bleue, I read the statements and some reviews. (Spoiler: "That was mistake [sic!]". But: actually, I'm "not one of those!" Really not, my wrists were occupied though and the "one-finger-one-perfume-method" is too exhausting for me and if it isn't, too decadent.)
So I'm reading "not for black souls"? "Melancholy?"
Mood of the fragrance: "Sad"?
Yet I had my for a cat oversized olfactory bulb already at the spray button of the bottling and was convinced we would become friends, perhaps friends for life.
Then... after a long time of waiting, my dear readers, to whom I have recreated this very time through an unnecessary, dissolute introduction, the time has come, L'Heure Bleue and 4ajbukoshka's first tête-à-tête.
So the following is 4ajbukoshka's inner monologue, since L'Heure Bleue seems to have lost his tongue over this disrespect.
The first seconds: "This is how laundromats must have smelled - in the days when there were no laundromats. Wow! A spicy breeze blows by briefly, after which it just smells soapy-clean-keenly beautiful. I didn't know I had a soft spot for soaps, but I do now. Baaaaah! This one pops."
Love at first sniff? Far from it.
4ajbukoshka's olfactory bulb tangents wrist. Nausea. "Another coffee overdose, or was it L'Heure Bleu after all? Je ne sais pas."
The soapy scent fills the air. "Yes. SUCH A THING deserves the name masterpiece, honestly."
Here's to a new one! Smelling bulb towards wrist. Nausea!
"But the air around me smells so nice!"
Music plays in 4ajbukoshka's head: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's canon "Lick me the peach fine quite clean."
The scenic image to this: scrub scrub, the washcloth foams. Soap still remains on the peach. You almost want to bite into it because it's so nice and shiny, but then it would just foam in your mouth full of soap, like biting into a bar of soap, bljachamucha.
"Does that explain this incredibly latent nausea?"
As a child, 4ajbukoshka had bitten into a bar of soap. It smelled so delicious, edible, enjoyable.
And yet, the package probably said "Bitrex, so kids won't get the idea of eating this soap, drinking cleaning products" or there was an illustration indicating that.
Well.
This is where I would want it.
And so I use up my sample of L'Heure Bleue and look forward to our next encounter, though not a tête-à-tête, but a corona-compliant meeting at a distance, perhaps comparable to visiting an aunt you miss after not seeing her for a long time and then, after a short time, are glad to see her leave for home.
L'Heure Bleue is not a spontaneous short visit. I looked several times at the label to convince myself: it is an EdT. Incredibly, how much charisma is in there. Some people could take a leaf out of that book (Ellena, cough cough). It's almost too strong for me, and in the faint hope that the EdP isn't even louder, I make a quiet exit (and then accidentally knock over a vase).
So I'm reading "not for black souls"? "Melancholy?"
Mood of the fragrance: "Sad"?
Yet I had my for a cat oversized olfactory bulb already at the spray button of the bottling and was convinced we would become friends, perhaps friends for life.
Then... after a long time of waiting, my dear readers, to whom I have recreated this very time through an unnecessary, dissolute introduction, the time has come, L'Heure Bleue and 4ajbukoshka's first tête-à-tête.
So the following is 4ajbukoshka's inner monologue, since L'Heure Bleue seems to have lost his tongue over this disrespect.
The first seconds: "This is how laundromats must have smelled - in the days when there were no laundromats. Wow! A spicy breeze blows by briefly, after which it just smells soapy-clean-keenly beautiful. I didn't know I had a soft spot for soaps, but I do now. Baaaaah! This one pops."
Love at first sniff? Far from it.
4ajbukoshka's olfactory bulb tangents wrist. Nausea. "Another coffee overdose, or was it L'Heure Bleu after all? Je ne sais pas."
The soapy scent fills the air. "Yes. SUCH A THING deserves the name masterpiece, honestly."
Here's to a new one! Smelling bulb towards wrist. Nausea!
"But the air around me smells so nice!"
Music plays in 4ajbukoshka's head: Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's canon "Lick me the peach fine quite clean."
The scenic image to this: scrub scrub, the washcloth foams. Soap still remains on the peach. You almost want to bite into it because it's so nice and shiny, but then it would just foam in your mouth full of soap, like biting into a bar of soap, bljachamucha.
"Does that explain this incredibly latent nausea?"
As a child, 4ajbukoshka had bitten into a bar of soap. It smelled so delicious, edible, enjoyable.
And yet, the package probably said "Bitrex, so kids won't get the idea of eating this soap, drinking cleaning products" or there was an illustration indicating that.
Well.
This is where I would want it.
And so I use up my sample of L'Heure Bleue and look forward to our next encounter, though not a tête-à-tête, but a corona-compliant meeting at a distance, perhaps comparable to visiting an aunt you miss after not seeing her for a long time and then, after a short time, are glad to see her leave for home.
L'Heure Bleue is not a spontaneous short visit. I looked several times at the label to convince myself: it is an EdT. Incredibly, how much charisma is in there. Some people could take a leaf out of that book (Ellena, cough cough). It's almost too strong for me, and in the faint hope that the EdP isn't even louder, I make a quiet exit (and then accidentally knock over a vase).
5 Replies