Oh, god, how I wish I'd left well enough alone. If I couldn't find my sample of Mon Patchouly on the first pass, I should have just stopped looking. Then I wouldn't be in this infernal tangle between hate and... not love, exactly, but something slightly more than tolerance. Grief, maybe. Or regret.
I despise Mon Patchouly's opening note, a soapy-indolic accord that encapsulates jasmine's most deplorable traits. (Why not pick one -- clean OR dirty -- and be done with it?) A flood of aftershave commences, from which a tiny thread of vegetation surfaces only long enough to evoke a wistful sigh. In a heartbeat, I understand what this fragrance might have been -- a mossy, tobacco-tinged patchouli, so very fetching. Then it sinks down, down, disappearing with a gurgle beneath the jasmine-scented waves, and I curse the heavens because there's no saving it.
It haunts me, that patchouli. I would make it mine, if only I could strip away the claws of that floral-fougère horror that drags it under. All I can advise it to do is close its eyes, swallow deep, and let Scylla and Charybdis do their dirty work.
Scent Elements: Patchouli, oakmoss, incense, geranium, jasmine, amber