Patti The Purfumerarianist

The year was 1978. I wanted this for my birthday, and I wanted it bad. THIS was my calling. I would be a perfumerarianist. A maker of smells. I would make smells the likes of which had never been smelled since the beginning of time. Smells that smelled better than Sweet Baby Jeebus's little baby noggin. Smells so glorious and hypnotic that when I wore them to school, kids on the playground would be drawn away from their games of four square to sniff me and look at me in awe. Strangers would stop me on the street and ask me how it was that I came to smell so fantastic. I would reply "I am a perfumerarianist, and I own my own perfumerarary." People would beg to buy my bottles of amazingness and their nostrils would delight in what they inhaled, as their nose hairs danced a happy jig. I would become rich. People around the world would be wearing my smells. I would go down in history as the most successful perfumerarianist EVER.

That was the dream. The dream I saw as clearly as if it had already happened.

Here's the reality: 

After months of incessant whining about how desperately I needed this, and even though my mom thought it was a stupid waste of money, she gave in so I would not fulfill my threats to sell our fine china in order to acquire the contraption that was going to make my whole life worthwhile. After opening it, I ran immediately to my lab, AKA perfumerarium, AKA playroom, to make the dream happen. No matter what portions of what smell I mixed together, it smelled like a dead animal's bunghole. So I went to get some extracts from my mom's baking cabinet and threw a few drops of those in. That made it worse. It was like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake. So I got some mouthwash and mixed that in, and nearly vomited because it smelled like the bunghole of a dead animal that ate a lot of cake, then died, then had a case of Scope mouthwash poured on his carcass. In the end, I dumped out my creations, rinsed out the bottles, opened my Love's Baby Soft, and poured it into the Barbie bottles. I then drew my name on the labels in marker, and went door to door and sold them for about 50 cents apiece. I told the buyers that when they were done I was gonna need my bottles back. Which they never gave me. Sometimes dreams are bullshit, you guys. Total. Bullshit.

P.S.

Visit my store and buy something this month, cuz all proceeds go to Project Night Night

OR...If you don't want any of the amazingly stupid stuff that I sell in my store, you can just go straight to Project Night Night on the interwebs and donate there.

Thank you to everyone who has ordered things the past 2 months. In case you didn't know, ALL money made from my Zazzle store goes to charity. I will choose a different one each month. The money from November goes to the Fisher Center for Alzheimer's Research Foundation, and October's earning were for Breast Cancer Research Foundation.

THANK YOU!! xoxo