The Part Kendall Rae Left Out
SCENT OF THE DAY: Tobacco Rose, by Papillon
Eau de Protection soapy rose at first. The rose actually is way more dominant at first, so much that it could seem reducible to just another spa-bath-bomb scent. The bath-bomb character does always remain but ti dials back. The rose plus the oakmoss-musk-balsam trifect starts bringing out an ethereal green aroma like we get in Mriga, only much more rosy whereas the Prin is more herbal and pine-foresty. Because of the honey-haylike tobacco here in Tobacco Rose, though, we get something closer to Tabac Tabou.
There are crucial differences of course. Tobacco Rose has rose whereas Tabac Tabou has none. Indeed, as the soapy side recedes a bit the rtose seems very complext and rich—one could say it approaches the depth even of Ensar’s Rugosa version of EO3. Tobacco Rose also goes mintier (because of carnation) and saltier (because of ambergris) whereas Tabac Tabou goes sweeter because not only does it have the honey side of Tobacco Rose but also a burnt-sugar-hay immortelle.
Papillon is a tremendous house. Salome on some days could be my number one scent of all time, defeating all the artisinals even. Tobacco Rose is stunning for the price. It has a deep artisinal feel. Liz Moores is a true artist. She is not pimping out her art for money.
The Part Kendall Rae Left Out
Ghrrhkkhh, huck. “Open that mouth.” Ptkhk. “Lucky I aint have a couple of my boys come help me run that nigglet-ass through.” Ptoo. “Look at me when I spit at you.” Ptoo. “Ooh, greasy now, huh? Aint sayin shit now. Mmm—real fuckin greasy.” Ptoo! “Claw my hand one more fuckin time!” Splack! “What happened to ‘Slap me. I like it when you slap me’?” Thwk. “Thought you liked that?” Thwk. “Yeah. Uh uh uh uh. Matter a fact, mmhh—yeah give it to me. I want it all. Give it to me. Spread that shit open or I’ll rip it the fuck open. Uh. Give it to me. Mmh. Told you, bitch.” Splack! “Wanna see that mouth bleed.” Splack! “That nose too.” Splack! “Oh fuck yeah.” Schlp-schlp-schlp-schlp. “Pissin up my car? Bet your ass still piss the bed. How a little kid gonna fuckin be a whore?” Schlp-schlp-schlp-schlp. “My fuckin God!” Schlp-schlp-schlp-schlp. “Oh, you limp now? Look at yourself: purple ass Whoopie-lookin monkey.” Splack! “Fuckin piss all over me but aint sayin shit? Wake the fuck up! Ptoo!” SPLACK! “Act like she aint never been choked the fuck out before. Give me a break.” SPLACK! “You know how to get a motherfucker goin, huh? Uh uh uh uh. Ghetto fuckin cum dump! Get this bendy when your deadbeat dad ran this shit through? Huh?” SPLACK! “No little girl this open unless they nasty. In and out.” Prfft, fwt. “This that nasty honey.” Frt, frt, frt. “Let me find out we playin dead now? That aint stoppin shit. Hear me?” Thwk, THWK, SPLACK! “Uh uh uh uh. Bitch look at you, gorilla-eyed monkey. Wake the fuck up!” SPLACK! “What the—? Shittin too?! Really—really, bitch? You a real pig, huh? Look at it! Face right in there, mmh—like a dog. Uh uh uh uh uh. Act like a dog get treated like a dog. Hear me?” Thmp! “Keep playin.” Thmp! “Op. Where your teeth? Go get them teeth!” Thmp! “Keep playin. Aint stoppin shit. Uh uh uh uh uh. Aint stoppin nothin. Uh uh uh uh uh uh. Aint stoppin nothin!” SPLACK! “Here we go. Uh-uh-uh-uh. Oh fuck yeah, all up in that baby pussy. Here’s your baby, bitch.” Schlp-schlp-schlp-schlp. “All me up that dead nigglet cunt.” Thmp!
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
