Sometimes I sit back and regard my dressing table with a mixture of pride and baffled wonderment. My sister tells me I have issues, my friends roll their eyes, my mother clucks, and tells me to stop wasting my money. Even with this symphony of disapproval ringing in my ears, it seems I am completely incapable of curbing my perfume-buying habit. Let them cluck and roll. Others pander to some obscure deity; I worship at the altar of the Floral Fruity Gourmand, throw myself on the mercy of the Chypre, and sing praises to the mighty Floriental. My fascination doesn’t merely extend to the fragrance itself – I obsess over bottle shape and composition with just as much enthusiasm, and will even forgo a nice scent if I find the bottle tacky or ill-fitted to the perfume inside. Am I a little obnoxious in my extreme obsession? Yes. Will that stop me, or even slow me a little? Not so much.¬†Apologize for my eccentricities? Bite your tongue, Honey. Welcome to ranting space/church.

Love,

The Bottle Snob

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