Elevatorgirl
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Elevatorgirl
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The most expensive Diddl sheet in the world
...would probably smell like Absolute Aphrodisiac.
Do any of you share my childhood memory of flavored diddle leaves that smelled so delightfully like synthetic strawberry? Absolute Aphrodisiac by Initio can actually be imagined exactly like that. So it's a mystery to me how it's possible to implement something so sweet in such a subtle way in such a deep, dark and mystical way - without turning a single fluffy hair of its childlike charm. Rather, the "Diddlblatt note" is lifted in a triune sense - on the one hand postponed (preserved for later), on the other revised and finally lifted up; reinterpreted. All of this, however, somehow evolves simultaneously. Despite the amber, AA's olfactory impression is anything but warm, rather soft, supple, almost fluffy and above all intimate, yet never too familiar. Also, extremely erotic, but without showing a pungent moment. A mystery that makes you crave less for answers, but rather enjoy its abundance of secrets.
Do any of you share my childhood memory of flavored diddle leaves that smelled so delightfully like synthetic strawberry? Absolute Aphrodisiac by Initio can actually be imagined exactly like that. So it's a mystery to me how it's possible to implement something so sweet in such a subtle way in such a deep, dark and mystical way - without turning a single fluffy hair of its childlike charm. Rather, the "Diddlblatt note" is lifted in a triune sense - on the one hand postponed (preserved for later), on the other revised and finally lifted up; reinterpreted. All of this, however, somehow evolves simultaneously. Despite the amber, AA's olfactory impression is anything but warm, rather soft, supple, almost fluffy and above all intimate, yet never too familiar. Also, extremely erotic, but without showing a pungent moment. A mystery that makes you crave less for answers, but rather enjoy its abundance of secrets.
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Almost enviably boring
Prada Candy, for me, is the olfactory manifestation of the beautiful Serena van der Woodsen from Gossip Girl - a privileged Manhattan private schoolgirl with Barbie hair and a daddy complex.
Basically, she's boring. Almost despicably boring. She strolls through the day with an attitude that makes all authority figures shake their heads. When her laugh rings out, it's so frighteningly vital, warm and light that more serious contemporaries probably not infrequently feel the need to wipe their brains clean of the imprint of her immaculate Upper East Side microcosm. It's not like she realizes it, but she regularly drives both men and women crazy - the men physically, the women mentally. She plays a game and doesn't even realize it. She plays and plays, all the livelong day and without any consideration. And that's exactly why she's so amazingly good at it. She owns the world and that's why they lay it at her feet.
Basically, she's boring. Almost contemptibly boring. But something about her natural elegance and uncomplicated playfulness captivates football-playing sunnyboys and snobby intellectuals alike. Like many an 08/15 bubblegum pop song on the radio, she magnetizes mercilessly and without anyone being able to resist her sticky-sweet appeal. Kitschy and graceful, dispensable and decadent, garish and timeless, penetrating and preppy, banal and inspired. Her development is one-dimensional and shallow, as Candy's beauty feeds off her carefree naiveté.
Basically, she's boring. Almost enviably boring. Some evenings I light candles and run a hot bubble bath. Then I put on my beloved Agent Provocateur lingerie made of gossamer pink lace and carefully paint my lips a ghastly bright pink. Then I take the bottle from my shelf and succumb to its Old Hollywood glamour. As soon as I operate the atomizer and the fine mist of spray envelops my body, I'm floating on fragrance cloud 7. Prada Candy's lovely sweet illusion becomes a part of me and invites me on its playful dance. Maybe it's the insubstantiality that makes it so light on its feet.
Basically, she's boring. Almost despicably boring. She strolls through the day with an attitude that makes all authority figures shake their heads. When her laugh rings out, it's so frighteningly vital, warm and light that more serious contemporaries probably not infrequently feel the need to wipe their brains clean of the imprint of her immaculate Upper East Side microcosm. It's not like she realizes it, but she regularly drives both men and women crazy - the men physically, the women mentally. She plays a game and doesn't even realize it. She plays and plays, all the livelong day and without any consideration. And that's exactly why she's so amazingly good at it. She owns the world and that's why they lay it at her feet.
Basically, she's boring. Almost contemptibly boring. But something about her natural elegance and uncomplicated playfulness captivates football-playing sunnyboys and snobby intellectuals alike. Like many an 08/15 bubblegum pop song on the radio, she magnetizes mercilessly and without anyone being able to resist her sticky-sweet appeal. Kitschy and graceful, dispensable and decadent, garish and timeless, penetrating and preppy, banal and inspired. Her development is one-dimensional and shallow, as Candy's beauty feeds off her carefree naiveté.
Basically, she's boring. Almost enviably boring. Some evenings I light candles and run a hot bubble bath. Then I put on my beloved Agent Provocateur lingerie made of gossamer pink lace and carefully paint my lips a ghastly bright pink. Then I take the bottle from my shelf and succumb to its Old Hollywood glamour. As soon as I operate the atomizer and the fine mist of spray envelops my body, I'm floating on fragrance cloud 7. Prada Candy's lovely sweet illusion becomes a part of me and invites me on its playful dance. Maybe it's the insubstantiality that makes it so light on its feet.
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