There was a store about a mile away from the house I grew up in that fascinated me throughout my whole childhood. The façade was painted in insane colors, and it was covered with weird, leering cartoonish illustrations. We drove by it almost every week, and I’d keep asking my parents what was inside – there was nothing on the storefront that indicated what the store was about – and they’d blow me off while making it implicitly clear that I was to never, ever enter that building.
When I was 12, I asked my parents to take me to the library so I could study. I waited about fifteen minutes to make sure that my dad had driven off, and then I walked over to the fascinating, forbidden mystery store.
The store was covered, wall-to-wall, in posters that glowed in garish fluorescent colors. Tie-dyed t-shirts, blankets, and flags were everywhere, and the cases were filled with what looked to me like endless rows of genie bottles. Peace signs were everywhere, and tons of merchandise was emblazoned with a plant I didn’t recognize.
Before they shooed me out – very kindly – this was the scent that imprinted on me: nag champa, patchouli, and weed smoke.
Please do not smoke, eat, or huff this oil. Do not rub it on your gums, do not put it on your privates, do not vape it. It is a perfume and meant to be used as such. No funnybusiness!
(This perfume contains no actual weed. Zero cannabis. None. Zilch. What do I look like? A dispensary?)
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