radfrac_archive_full

And one more BPAL review (forgive the self-indulgence -- I'm trying to avoid real work.)

( Peppermint Cream Cupcake )

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Crossposted from Dreamwidth (http://radiantfracture.dreamwidth.org/2491.html), where there are comments. Comments either place are great.

If BPAL had not updated their website I might still be without a PayPal account. I might never have made an eBay purchase. Would my life be worse because I lacked the means to obtain these bewitching scents? Or better because I'd still possess all my longing and my money too? Unanswerable.

The thing I have the least ability to get used to about the Internet is the way it takes longing and seeking after unattainable things and squashes them flat, like cartoon characters stomped by a boot. Fortunately there are still heaps of straight men, so I will never lack for brooding options.

I won my first two eBay bids, despite sneaky last-minute manoeuvering by nefarious strings of asterisks. The bids were for two of my lost loves, Spooky and Mead Moon, both discontinued. I had tiny vials of each — I don't know how they came to be in vials, since limited editions are sold by the bottle — someone must have decanted them, but I don't know when or by what method. I bought them like this, little knowing what I had. The Mead Moon was just a drop of sweet-spicy honey and has long since evaporated into a delicious ghostly residue. The Spooky I've been hoarding for its weird chalky mint with underlying warm magma of coconut and butter rum.

And now I can have them — just like that. While I was waiting to have them and in suspense about whether I would win them at all, I was pretty sure they were the last two things I needed to complete my earthly happiness. Now I am still medium sure, though that small unhappy frown is already forming between my eyebrows — you know it — that frown that says I thought I would be happier about this.

I more or less live as though on an unending treasure hunt, and though I like finding the things, it doesn't do to have that happen too often.

Another ramble today, quite late — the last hour before sunset. I'm much saner if I can get it at least one long walk every weekend. The city smells of smoke and cedar, and the first mown grass is rounding out its particular fougère.

And now my new thermostat is drawing the cold into the room thread by thread to tell me, by the chilling of extremities, that it is time to put myself to bed.

{rf}

This morning I said to myself, "I think my deodorant is a fougère."

( In which I discuss deodorant, desire, and death. )