My adventures today led me to Marshall's with Katie to buy some dress pants for Glee Club, or rather, the closest possible thing we can get to yoga pants that still bear some semblance to dress pants.
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| Watch yourselves, Pajama Jeans, because Pajama Slacks are hot on your heels |
I'm standing in line to purchase a pair of just about the ugliest pants I've ever bought (they don't have butt pockets, like ghetto slut jeans but dressier) and I'm admiring the big wall o' fragrance they strategically place at the checkout along with the socks and the water bottles and the stupidly cute boxes of jelly beans to make you go "holy mother eff I need these things."
One little blue box on the wall o' fragrance catches my eye because I happen to love this particular scent and this particular scent has been off the market since like, 2006. I hoarded some samples of it a while back but I just used up the last of it yesterday trying to get the Mexican food smell out of my pajamas.
The checkout line is doing its little black magic trick on my mind and making me think that I must buy it or I will lose my soul. The checkout line reminds me of all the bottles of smell-goods I still have that are mostly empty except for the little puddle at the bottom that can never seem to get through the straw, rendering them all useless. I need this.
The perfumey shtuff is sixteen bucks, which is no chump change to a starving college student, but I figure you only live once and you might as well live smelling like a pristine beach with clear turquoise water and a light breeze and hints of citrus and green tea. I want Katie to smell it because I have a deep and unresolved need for approval, but they put all the perfumes in those strait-jacket boxes so you can't smell them before you buy them, which I think is absurd. You get to try on clothes and shoes before you buy them. You get to test drive a car before you buy it, even though you could potentially just dent the salesman's skull and drive off in it (not that I've thought about it). But you can't dab a little goshdamn eu de toilette on your wrist before you spend sixteen dollars plus sales tax on it? EFF CENTRALIZED GOVERNMENT AND BIG CORPORATIONS (college has taught me that it's always their fault).
The perfumey shtuff is sixteen bucks, which is no chump change to a starving college student, but I figure you only live once and you might as well live smelling like a pristine beach with clear turquoise water and a light breeze and hints of citrus and green tea. I want Katie to smell it because I have a deep and unresolved need for approval, but they put all the perfumes in those strait-jacket boxes so you can't smell them before you buy them, which I think is absurd. You get to try on clothes and shoes before you buy them. You get to test drive a car before you buy it, even though you could potentially just dent the salesman's skull and drive off in it (not that I've thought about it). But you can't dab a little goshdamn eu de toilette on your wrist before you spend sixteen dollars plus sales tax on it? EFF CENTRALIZED GOVERNMENT AND BIG CORPORATIONS (college has taught me that it's always their fault).
I take a leap of faith because those always work out reeeeally well for me. When we get back to Katie's I take it out of the box so I can spritz some on and maybe cover up the potent smell of Jergen's Natural Glow. And...
It isn't even the right perfume. It's some Kimora Lee Simmons shit that smells like flowers dipped in syrup wrapped in your grandmother's panties.
Which just makes me wonder, who has the audacity to put garbage in a costume and sell it off as something entirely different from what it really is?
Oh wait...
Oh wait...
HI MY NAME IS BRETT AND I AM A VICTIM OF CORPORATE AMERICA.
(Epilogue: Brett decides to keep the Kimora Lee Simmons because the bottle is pretty)
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