I am blogging now, fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to get myself together for class, as an alternative to throwing myself on the floor and tearing off my epidermis.
Exegesis: I am very allergic to perfume. Nasty allergic. Last semester, someone used a Guess perfume sample–one of those little cards the women at the perfume counters at department stores spray with the latest scent (after dousing you with said scent) and insist you take along–as a bookmark in a library book about archaeology. I don’t know how long it was there, but by the time I got to the book, every page in the two inch thick tome reeked, and I sustained an attack getting my class readings done. Until I discovered the offending sample card, I would’ve sworn that someone had soaked the whole thing in some sort of laundry detergent.
Well, apparently the culprit is a serial perfumer. I bought my textbook for this class used, and what do you know–I open the thing, and a distinctive laundry detergent scent wafts up in my face. Martha offers a remedy for odiferous books, but it takes a month–not to mention two lidded garbage cans and kitty litter–to take effect. My class will be over and done with in another three weeks, so my better option is to suck it up. Mark my words, though, if I catch the culprit, retribution will be exacted.
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