Stefanu155

For some time now, I have been surrounded by a growing number of scent slaves, to whom I ruthlessly and in varying doses apply fragrances that fate has played into my hands over time. Of course, these unfortunate creatures are completely unaware of their actual status and spend their miserable days believing that they are "allowed" to wear the scents I administer, attributing to me a generosity and patronage that, from my side, is ultimately a cold calculation and a need for empiricism that goes to any lengths...
Thus, my servants carry out trials happily, oblivious to their position as will-less playthings of my naso-sophical, sometimes even sado-nasochistic whims.
For the necessary logistics and psychological manipulation alone, I deserve the highest admiration, but fortunately, my unbroken narcissism is not dependent on the world's praise; it nourishes itself entirely from within. But that’s just a side note.
I seize the happy moment, as my inner sun unfolds its full radiance, to drop a few uplifting words about this fragrance that I consistently do not wear. Can one drop uplifting words? Ultimately irrelevant, let’s forget that. (The "We" is, of course, a pluralis majestatis and the way I most often and gladly conduct dialogues with my ego!)
A criticism right from the start: After applying the fragrance in various concentrations and amounts to my subordinates, where I tend to exaggerate and exceed socially accepted boundaries, especially with the female subjects, I can say that it is, like some offerings from the house of Ellena, too short-lived to simply overlook this fact. Already after an hour, a certain indecency and closeness to the subject is necessary to still perceive the fragrance. Close to the skin, it lasts long, but very faint... faint, yet still with a hint of the sour-fresh, initial friendliness. However, it unfolds in its beginning this simple bittersweet, citrus-like freshness, which merely flirts with a certain sophistication by underpinning it with a waxy leaf note: hard foliage, where one scratches the surface with a fingernail...
This tempts me to dust my subordinates and those loyal to me with it repeatedly, allowing them to run in wider and tighter circles around me. This way, I place myself in a position to let the fragrance affect me in all its facets. Here, I have noticed strong personal and individual deviations among the various lackeys. Since I also have original inhabitants of the Nile Valley under my command, I could not resist testing the fragrance on them based on its title. However, this did not lead to any statistically significant deviations from the average. The generally cool, refreshing, and spring-like effect appears equally among all test subjects. Even the combination with certain diets (green mango...) could not elicit any specific characteristics from the fragrance, although it did lead to digestive issues for a few... This is not surprising, as the mangoes used were indeed very green and sour! If the individuals do not circle me too quickly, too closely, and with only a little sweat, the distinct freshness is caught and softened by very pleasant, actually garden-like bitter notes, which gives it a touch of corporeal sensuality, making it hard for me to remain motionless on my couch. Of course, I do not succumb to the silly and inappropriate temptation to spray the fragrance on myself and take a walk in my expansive gardens. I need not repeat: I let others wear it and I let them stroll, at best, some fools carry me on my litter behind the subordinates, so I can take my notes to do justice to the fleeting impressions on the sandy paths and in the shade of the foliage with words. Of course, it all belongs to me, all of it. Given the current general situation and increasing criticism of my lifestyle (which is occasionally relayed to me), this does not make it any easier. My own brilliance and hereditary genius occasionally become moody and increasingly unreliable... Well, I do not want to let the bitterness of the beautiful fragrance lead me to bitter thoughts, but rather dive back into the enjoyment of the irreplaceable moment, always eager to heighten the allure, for I already notice how the aroma threatens to drown in the abundance of environmental scent influences. So I wink mischievously and naively friendly into the lively crowd, distributing not a few fragrance samples among them and eagerly await my renewed elevation.
Ferdinand, Sophie, Alina, come here quickly!

I had to cut the bottom of my tight pants today because in this rather cool season, my feet quickly turn blue due to poor circulation. The ribbing of the fabric creates a red-striped temporary tattoo, which unfortunately no one will appreciate in the darkness out here. The kidneys and bladder are a less significant collateral damage, but frozen toes, no, that’s just not acceptable. Now I can stomp around faster, and I’m currently practicing writing perfume reviews while walking in the dark and against the wind. The display lights up my face, or at least what can still be seen of it despite the beard. It would look photogenic. Speaking of perfume: It’s materialistic enough to fit into my sober worldview but also somehow esoteric, at least just off enough to generate the necessary distinction gain.
C'mon, let's create the hype. Let’s try Trimaran.
It’s very vintage, very old school, no one knows it (anymore), and it’s quite rare. The bottle doesn’t look that great either, actually quite off in a way, with a thin black-blue plastic cap on top, but somehow it’s also cult-like. Full.
From the bottle, it smells very, well, old, but don’t let that fool you. It also smells good old, tobacco-original-old, primal-Paco-Rabanne-old, maybe Azzaro-old and even older, old-Chanel-Number-Five old, not like my father, who smelled after -- after work like a stable, after shaving like Old Spice, later then like Nivea After Shave Balm or something like that.
He rarely smelled like my mother. I have nothing against my father; after all, he pays the rent for my 30sqm loft! I don’t need anything big, we have space in our co-working space. Anyway, I’ve set up a board in the corner, not for books or things, just to lean against with the laptop and so, so when visitors are there, I always lean against it with the laptop. It has the same color. It looks good.
No, it smells like my grandfather, oh, what am I saying, like my great-grandfather, really! Although my great-grandfather fell in a terrible war that once happened here, so actually no one knows how he smelled anymore. But he had a beard like mine today, you can see that in the old photos. But maybe that’s how it smells straight from the bottle.
When you put it on, this somehow sour greenish-yellow racing stripe appears - speaking of racing stripes - there used to be those on cars, even on bicycles, you know - you can just stick it on the car in a color that stands out, so it has to be noticeable. It must not blend into the background; on the contrary. It has to pop. There used to be these super sour lemon chewing gums (or were they dragees?), they tasted like that at first, but that went away quickly, while with Trimaran... it stays! This lemon is... no, that’s not a lemon, that’s a contrast agent, absolutely artificial, the sports-, racing- or whatever stripe, confessingly artificial, modern, you have to say. It kicks the scent from old-schooler to neo-vintage; in other words, it could be from now and just pretend to be old.
Scan it immediately, secure the last bottles, there are still some online, I’ve already checked. I will probably sell mine, just before it runs out, for 50 bucks for 15 ml at Parfumo... I mean, for example, Aventus, how boring is that, it never really smelled good, good, sure, but really good? No, never.
With Trimaran, it’s different; it actually smelled really good, even if it might have been a while ago. So at least the racing stripe is insane. Go, let's create the hype. Checking doesn’t cost anything. When the racing stripe fades in brightness, the old-good comes back to the surface, the warm tobacco-original-old, the lemon gradually fizzles out.
By the way, since I’ve been dealing with perfumes, I actually don’t need sex anymore; I now give my partner complete warmth and security, and we clarify everything in conversation, even though we or especially because we have separated in friendship. Everything is a hundred percent fair between us. I’m still here, still freezing out here.
And, have you already looked for offers online? There are still really good things out there...

PS: Thank you, dear Christmas lady!
And: On my photo wall, I’m trying to show that the design of the bottle strangely resembles a Romanesque church facade (e.g., the cathedral of Lucca, etc.)...

After this venerable scent has been around for so long and enjoys a solid appreciation among some highly esteemed noses of mine, it was high time for me to take a closer look at the boy that my inner nose has long envisioned. (First sentences should be short - what do I care?)
In fact, I could quite well imagine this lavender-vanilla combo, as I have now learned in hindsight, but on the other hand, lavender is not one of those materials that I feel I must constantly smell (it falls more into the "spices" category for me, meaning it can also be used for cooking...).
Furthermore, the adjective "vanilla-like" does not evoke an immediate desire to sniff in the sense that I absolutely wanted it (see above), which, to cut a long story short, led me to only know the bottle of this fragrance so far, but I never actually used it mechanically.
So first, "Whoa! What's going on here?" The herbaceous-bitter lavender slices through the surrounding air with the sharpness of a pirate's saber, proclaiming, "You shall have no other god beside me." That doesn't happen, as for 10 seconds I am mentally and emotionally incapacitated by the lavender shock and take the sprayer with me to the computer, so I don't have to get up again later (who knows if I can...).
Well, 10 seconds pass quickly, and very cautiously, the milder tones of the soothing and sweet notes venture forth to gently stroke their lavender boss's belly. However, he not only ignores this but also becomes - now it gets naughty, ladies and gentlemen - lustful, almost dirty.
Lavender tends to do this in a certain density and opacity, but I must say... he has quite a bit of mischief behind or under his ears.
Whether one perceives this more as the braying of the (unclean) youth, the sourness of the rutting woman, or the suddenly lustful aura of the older gentleman is irrelevant and would be purely a matter of taste or smell. The adjective "ratty" also comes to mind in this context...
I am torn, because on one hand, I didn't expect such a "decent" old-schooler to behave this way, and I am pleased by the surprise, as most old-schoolers I know often just smell old to me; I am surprised by my joy... but on the other hand - that's quite cheeky!
And no, this is not skin chemistry or any such mythological concepts; I haven't crushed any molecules (hee-hee), it works just as well on a fabric piece, paper, or clothing - just as prickly, unabashed, and straight to the point.
The question that arises here is, of course: did Mr. Daltroff back in 1934 accept this olfactory interlude as "inevitable with a lot of lavender," or did he intentionally operate with it and "shape" the scent in this direction, or did it not even occur to him because lavender already created a certain habituation and dullness in his nose that he couldn't even entertain such thoughts?
So, in any case, we have a certain lavender problem here, a problem lavender, so to speak, uh, we then have a distinction between the normally behaving lavender, the harmful lavender, and the uh problem lavender. And, uh, it is quite clear that, uh, this lavender, uh, is a problem lavender and it is, by the way, fundamentally, uh, quite a certain luck that he practically filled the place with scent at 1 AM. And thank God it wasn't noticed in the house, uh, well, at least it wasn't.
But I did.
And that, as I said, I find on one hand cool that he shows such unexpected edge, but on the other hand, also a tad too much... In any case, the problem lavender goes into house arrest, investigative custody, or quarantine after about 30 to 45 minutes (but what he may have already caused?) and is now only allowed out with an electronic vanilla ankle monitor and musk mask. He bears it with composure and, in the long run, forms a very harmonious, calm, and character-strong unit that, as befits an 86-year-old, shines with age-related mildness and human-friendly wisdom and now, albeit late, proves to be beneficial and supportive to humanity. Now, I must finally say, he actually smells just as I had imagined him all along. Let's hope the heart holds out for a long time.

Dear ones, I understand all degrees of reviews here, your enthusiasm and your criticism. He is significantly "stranger" than I thought, but I find that good again. And on the other hand... etc. etc.

In the past, when I used to do this, I sometimes wrote regular perfume comments during my usual S-Bahn ride. Difficult now in Covid times, because the control sniffer on my wrist could get me into trouble with the potential control sniffer or at least provoke the unwillingness of other passengers, so I’d better wait until I feel unseen.
So, green-fresh first, not surprisingly. Ah, lily of the valley, very clear. What does the pyramid say about my impression? Nothing.
Nothing says the lily of the valley, Rosyfolia says it, but that doesn’t mean anything to me. I look it up and learn that this fragrance is supposed to smell similar to my lily of the valley. So very similar, I’d like to note here. Quite the same, one could say. Good that I could verify that. It’s also difficult, looking out the window I should be seeing November according to the calendar, which is acting like early October right now, but even that wouldn’t be a time for lily of the valley...
I now have to overcome some metaphorical hurdles or take some curves to get back to the perfume.
Lily of the valley is toxic, like...well? Vipers, for example.
This viper thus stuns its potential victims with a small but sufficient dose of lily of the valley poison, slithers into the tall grass to wait hidden for the effect to take place. That’s how it lathers its candidates, the cunning snake. Of course, soapy notes come into play here, and now beyond that my S-Bahn finally arrives and I have to act briefly in reality. Sitting down would be appropriate. So. Back to the green viper. What were they actually aiming for with the toxic title? Anyone looking for something fitting to the title will be disappointed; anyone looking for something else wouldn’t choose a green viper. Either way, it doesn’t add up. Fresh, green, floral-soapy it smells here - I think I’m currently unseen and quickly sniff through the fabric mask - yes, that’s right. A subtle bitterness protects against floral heaviness or lushness and keeps the whole thing in spring.
And what’s with the snake? I feel like Eve in that strange garden, I don’t think much of it...

Herb-bitter with a cold touch, it begins. The roots have been dug up, dried, ground, primed - in the end, a metallic sheen finishes it off. Something rough, underground and woody has been brought to light and wrapped in a chrome-glossy coating. The bitter nature from below the grass meets cool technology.
If the strong monastery bitter is not bitter enough, one can help with harsh resins. Freshness is, as already mentioned, completely absent here. But a refrigerator turns the herbal bitter into a chilled herbal bitter. Next to the gin bottle stands this irresistible one.
Metal workshop. The root treatment takes place with grinding tools and polishing sponges. One can smell machine oil, smeared leather work gloves, steel shavings. Resins from primers and sealants.
In the working process, the material becomes drier. Wood dust, bitter bark remnants mix in. While grinding, the fuse pops out and a smell of ionized air, ozone, along with a few smoky aromas settles in.
Root work is also what it's called in the kitchen, where one needs such for soups or broths, carrots, celery, parsley root - everything that grows underground or partially underground. Yes, there’s also something bay-like, but I mean rather the fresher, not yet dried leaves.
In the kitchen, things are chopped, in the workshop, further polished and ground. Certain herbal kitchen scents waft in, certain workshop smells, especially the mixture of oil and metal, are hard to get rid of. Resins stick. The irresistible one looks at the strange shapes that now, simplified and more compact, are hardly recognizable under the reflective chrome surface as what they were just this morning. He takes off his smeared work suit and goes to the kitchen. The workshop remains messy for today.

One must like it, but even if my description may not sound like it, it is absolutely suitable for everyday use. Irresistible? Hardly. Strict? Yes. Please take your laughter elsewhere.
(Into the workshop, for example...)