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FUN-to-MAS or about the love of things or also about the end of love
A note: if you're expecting an enlightening description of the scent's progression, technical data on durability and silage, or even just an objective description of the scent, you should stop reading now. Rather read the other comments, gladly the one of Yatagan, this is just for fun!
Years ago, I fell in love.
It didn't end well,
that much in advance.
I met her in the supermarket, on the shelf next to the silver onions.
Cornichons in a jar, Spreewald.
1380 g drained weight, dream dimensions.
I was immediately gone, in love up to both ears.
She got into my car and accompanied me home.
There I opened it with a happy crack.
Sweet and spicy, crisp and green, she smiled at me.
The first kiss was uplifting.
I placed her in the brightest and most beautiful place in the refrigerator.
There she floated in clear water.
For a long time we were happy together.
But she was consumed by my love.
Eventually there was only a small, delicate pickle left in the jar.
I must confess, the initial passion had long since faded by then.
I guess we had grown apart.
At least, I had.
So there was the last pickle floating in her big jar.
I couldn't bring myself to leave her.
So she was slowly displaced by other things.
Jam, mustard, mundane stuff.
The jar moved further and further into the depths of the fridge.
Away from the light to the cold back wall.
And there it stood, obscured and abandoned.
Alone and lonely in the cold darkness.
I confess, I had forgotten her.
Other things had distracted me.
Until one day I defrosted the refrigerator and found them again.
I took them out and put them on the kitchen table.
I was glad to see them again, after all these years.
Maybe it would be like the old days again?
She looked changed.
Bigger, as if bloated.
The water was cloudy.
The lid bulged slightly.
I didn't see the warnings, was too glad to have found them again.
So I opened the lid.
Not a happy crack.
Just a grumpy pffft.
The gush of their foul cucumberiness hit me full force.
A punch in the stomach, stars before my eyes.
Gasping for breath.
She screamed to me the years of loneliness,
Her anger and despair like melting plastic.
Their hatred was burnt rubber.
I wanted to shoot the lid again quickly.
Had it already in trembling hand.
But something held me back.
She was right, after all, I had disowned her, disappointed her, offended her.
So I let it wash over me.
I had deserved it after all.
After hours, her anger had faded somewhat.
We talked for a long time about our feelings and stuff.
Then we parted ways,
if not as friends,
we grew closer inside We settled and amicably.
We will meet again rather not.
The other day I was in the supermarket again.
That's when I discovered my new love.
Borscht, 25 liters.
This time everything will be different...
Object sexuality ... is the term used to describe the sexual attraction of people to inanimate objects. ... The term "objectophilia", also encountered in this context, is alternatively used to describe a pathological addiction to having to collect certain things. (Wikipedia) Yes, such a thing really exists.
Fantomas doesn't smell like a rotten pickle to me, but rather like a melon that's overripe to the max, still shrink-wrapped in plastic, but already clearly oozing. But that would not have fit into the story, hence the cucumber. Artistic license.
Perfume or art? Since one can safely assume Gualtieri to know how to make perfumes, I assume with Fantomas that it is not a perfume, but rather art. That's why I don't rate it. I evaluate yes also not the Mona Lisa or criticize Leonardo da Vinci.
Before Fantomas one must not be afraid, he is neither particularly bad, nor particularly great - simply test, also does not hurt!
Meloniest thanks to Gandix!