Everybody hot is selling something during Fashion Week. Petra Nemcova is selling candles by way of her tits which were contained in her dress by the barest of margins. I’m not sure what it is about scented candles that drive people to whip out their credit cards. Oh, look, I made a fucking candle that smells like, wait for it, vanilla. Thanks for the perilous journey to the subcontinent, Da Gama. I can get vanilla at 7-Eleven on the corner now.
Women especially find that certain scents put them in different moods. Especially when paired with prescription strength opiates and anti-depressants. You burn a cinnamon scented votive along with a couple Xanax and suddenly the thought of your husband banging the young neighbor whose vagina still moistens itself doesn’t seem so awful. They ought to keep Petra’s candles burning up on the prominent bridges where the depressed go to end it all. I was going to plummet to my death, but that lilac with a shade of nutmeg makes me realize my bankruptcy and pending child rape charges really aren’t all that bad. Fuck it, I’ll take a dozen of those lifesavers.
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