You're struck. Sent into a feminine coma. Heaven absolute. You arrive at a nebulous cloud, paralyzed, and your knees give out. Flower petals start to lightly tumble down around you, and trees gently sway in a wind off in the distance, their rustling leaves making the only sound. Stars twinkle silently beyond the swirling mountains of the pink nimbus, and you can't help but gasp. Your soulmate comes up from behind you and traces your aching joints with her fingers before pulling the softest casmir blanket around you. She embraces you underneath it, holds you, kisses you, and she tastes warm, with vanilla, and raspberries, and light creamy spices, and you don't want this moment to end. Ugh ugh ugh. 51 Pour Femme by Roja Dove.
You're seven years old. You're in a barber shop, and even though you have no hairs on your face, an old man lathers you up for a shave, and you all laugh as your white foam beard is scraped away. You're in your hippie aunt's car on your first trip to go hiking and naming trees, and as you're driving, the sunlight is dancing through the woods, warming the dried vanilla and lavender flowers hanging from her rear-view mirror. You're at home and you're being rebellious. You've accidentally discovered your mom's makeup products, and you're curious (but repelled) as you smell her foundation powder and those foam puffs she would use to dab it on her face. 1725 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're a tobacco leaf on a journey. Grown fresh in manured soil, then picked, hung in a stuffy barn, flue-cured, moistened, re-dried, conditioned, shredded, and blended with humectants, sweet resins, labdanum, vanilla, and birch tar. You're stuffed in a pipe and lit for a yearly celebration, and as you smolder, parts of you billow their way through its stuffy wood interior and into the living and organic interior of a man. When he's finished, your remains are left in the pipe to age for a whole year in those sweet and sticky oils, never to fully dry, until the man decides to celebrate again. 1740 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're munching on some lukewarm pineapple on a sunny day. You're eating it with your hands and you're getting yourself into a sticky mess when, all of the sudden, a bunch of guests invite themselves over for an afternoon lunch. The men come in wearing various patchouli and woodsy colognes, the women are wearing vanilla and florals, and you're helpless as they all greet you and bombard you with quick hugs while you keep your sticky pineapple hands up in the air. 1804 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're in the heart of the Canadian wilderness in 1756, digging with your bare hands for snakeroot (ginger). It's August, and instead of marching with your brothers on Fort Oswego to push back the British, you're frantically trying to save your best friend who was just bitten by a snake. You enlist the help of an Iroquois ally, and before long, you're all indoors and participating in a wild healing ritual dominated by potent ginger oils, powdered herbs, and sweet smoke. 1826 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're out at a Christmas tree farm with your dad, and before long you've found the perfect one. Together, you saw the pine tree down and lug it back to his truck, accidentally pricking your hands along the way and getting them covered in sap. After he stitches you up on the back of the truck bed, you ask him if it would be okay if you could spend some time in the gift shop before you leave, and he agrees. When you walk inside, you're greeted by a cozy room surrounded by log cabin walls that are covered in all sorts of antique trinkets. You browse around and play with some of the decades-old toys as your dad buys an assortment of eucalyptus, vetiver, and cinnamon candles for your mom. 1828 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're a ground squirrel in the summer and you're on a mission to stock up on nuts and seeds for the winter. But, you've been a bad squirrel, unknowingly pissing off your human neighbors by digging up their rose garden. To start your day, you return to a soft patch of soil under some roses to check on a stash of goodies that you buried a few days ago, and when you arrive, you're shocked and horrified at what you find: cumin/caraway seeds all over the place. (For squirrelkind, it's a known deterrent, I mean, haven't you read about it in the Annals of Human-Squirrel Myths and Legends?) You quickly abort the mission and, while gagging, you scamper back through the thick roses over to the carnations and iris flowers to think up some better plans for the winter. 1876 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're a lumberjack in a forest near the Pacific coast, cutting down trees. You're chewing sweet and spicy cinnamon gumdrops, daydreaming about Christmastime with the family. You briefly wonder if you could end the day early to stop and enjoy a peppered steak on your way home. 1899 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're going all out for Valentine's Day. It's the evening, and she's just come home. You've been waiting for her and preparing, hanging clove buds to warm near the windows, covering every inch of the bedroom with roses, putting huge rose bouquets in vases all around, and when she finally comes in, she's floored. You grab her and she hugs you tight and you both laugh and.. as the tight hug loosens, you both hold each other for a moment. You begin to sense her natural musk and some white flowers here and there as you press your nose into her hair. After some time, you look at each other, and you both smile and share a kiss, thinking about how warm the night might turn out to be. The next morning, she wakes you up with coffee, and she falls in bed next to you with the box of chocolates you had gotten her the night before. By now, you've both gotten used to the roses overflowing everywhere, and you're left with a soft, subtly sweet, and ever so human moment, in love. 1969 by Histoires de Parfums.
You're a rabbit. You live in a dead garden. Your entire diet consists of unremarkable weeds, poison ivy/oak/sumac, and the occasional poisonous flower blossom. But, this isn't just any garden, because its owner decided to plant a bunch of cucumbers this year. So, you're a rabbit. You live in a mostly dead garden. Your entire diet consists of raw cucumbers, unremarkable weeds, poison ivy/oak/sumac, and the occasional poisonous flower blossom. The best part is that every so often you get to munch on all of these things after they've been spritzed with an insecticide. Santal 33 by Le Labo.
You're a product consultant and you've just stepped foot into a niche slaughterhouse to critique some liquid smoke products while you try them on some fresh pork. The place is pretty grim and you can hear squealing off in the distance, but you're pretty hyped to taste the bacon. For some reason, though, instead of participating in any taste tests, you're taken down to a grimy, morgue-like dungeon area, where a foul-smelling, ashy cremation of some diseased pigs is going on, bones and all. You didn't ask to be made an involuntary guest on a new exposé helmed by PETA, but here you are. Patchouli 24 by Le Labo.
You're deep in the city, on a rainy day, chasing your cat, and you definitely don't have time for this. You're led to a tiny alcove off of what seems like an abandoned alley, and you discover a garden filled with violet flowers. It's also filled with weeds, and a bunch of stray cats, and it's starting to get flooded with acid rain. You wonder if you should head back home, leaving your cat with its new tribe. Iris 39 by Le Labo.
You're a baby. Yeah, you're a baby and helplessly covered in baby powder, and for some reason the family cat keeps wanting to mark you as part of her litter or as part of her territory (or something like that). You find it hard to breathe, almost constantly, and your mom, who smells of vanilla body lotion and hand soap, has no idea. The powder follows you wherever you're carried. Your existence is suffocating. Labdanum 18 by Le Labo.
You're a gardenia flower, standing upright in a mostly dead garden of cucumbers and weeds. You're a millenial, tired of the hashtags, rebelling against your Instagram feed and spilling your bottle of Santal 33 by Le Labo all over the ground as you stand in a garden of white flowers. You're a chef salad (without the croutons) minding your own business when suddenly a teenager spills Coca-Cola all over you. Ylang 49 by Le Labo.
You're visiting the city dog pound, and you forget to bring a clothespin for your nose. You decide to carry on and suffer through it, finding the perfect (smelly) dog. When you get back to the car with your new malodorous family member, you crumble. You can't take it any longer and you need to neutralize the smell somehow. You start digging through your purse and your glovebox and you magically discover a bottle of Neroli 36 by Le Labo. Alright, so, in this moment, you think it's a good idea, but let's be frank: you're not thinking clearly. You spray it anyways, and neither you nor your doggie makes it home in one piece. Jasmin 17 by Le Labo.
You're a steel bucket, with bits of rust here and there, and you're sitting in a wet garden filled with jasmine flowers. Inside your oxidized steel frame, you're holding a batch of Fleur d'Oranger 27 by Le Labo. Your existence is dull, albeit a bit more pleasant, but unfortunately just as unwanted. Neroli 36 by Le Labo.
You're a bee, and you're munching on an enormous orange blossom. The citrus nectar is bright and sweet to your little bee tastebuds, so you keep digging until you've had your fill. Before long, you're so covered in the blossom's sticky, sweet, and powdery pollen that your wings are unable to flutter, and you're blown off in a breeze. You tumble towards the ground while slowly realizing that your final days on earth will be spent becoming a sweet and sticky powder yourself. Fleur d'Oranger 27 by Le Labo.
You're a piece of pork. You're soaked in a pork rub made out of vanilla extract and baby powder, then smoked over a grassy fire and marinated with cold cucumber slices. Hey, don't ask me, it's what the customer ordered. Vetiver 46 by Le Labo.
You're out adventuring and you come across an abandoned train car. You climb inside and you're immediately surrounded with rusty steel and all sorts of graffiti. After taking a look around, you find that it's mostly empty, except for an assortment of overturned industrial cleaners and a small patch of orange blossoms growing in corner. Bergamote 22 by Le Labo.
You're a rose, soaked in formaldehyde, preserved in a glass jar. Your jar is left in a dusty, abandoned workshop, and your only visitors are rodents, which seem to drop in whenever they feel the need to mark their territory. Your existence is timeless, sure, but also sour and deservedly forgotten. Rose 31 by Le Labo.
You're a rotting tree. When you were alive, you spent a few hundred years enjoying a peaceful and sumptuously windy existence. You would even boast to the other trees, because your leaves and branches were always plentiful, because wildlife from all over called you their home, because lovers even carved their names in your sides. Everything was perfect until insects found you and bored into you and began tearing you apart from inside. You loosened, and you crumbled, and your whole trunk broke off and fell to the ground. Do you remember watching it erode over time while you were left as a helpless, rotting stump? Currently, your existence is not a pretty one. Every day, you're plagued by incurable necrosis. Every day, you're sprayed with urine by all kinds of animals as they mark their territory. Every day, you're sent rose petals by the wind, as if it, too, mourned your death. Congratulations, tree. You have become the headstone to your own, sorry grave. Oud 27 by Le Labo.