Today I am PMS-ing like Godzilla's mother. If I were a traffic signal, I'd be lit up red. If I had cigarettes, they’d all be smoked down to the filter. I yearn to slap every single person who comes within ten feet of me. If I did, the trajectory of my open hand would be marked by a trail of Expression, Jacques Fath's 1977 super-chypre. "But why?" my stunned victims would cry, their cheeks cartoonishly aflame with my hot-pink handprint... and my dry, unsmiling chypre would settle over them like a mocking laugh.
Perhaps IFRA's paranoid vendetta against real oakmoss contains a core of altruistic logic. Nothing intensifies the aura of a woman on the verge of a screaming fit more than a classic Queen Bitch chypre. For the good of civilization as we know it, they ought to be outlawed... at least during that time of the month.
Scent Elements: Oakmoss, a half-gallon tin of whup-ass, and a can opener.