God, I love Pulp Fiction. How a movie that's now eligible for a learner's permit in PA remains just the epitome of goddamn cool is beyond me. Of course, that could be an indication that I'm getting old. Anyway, as the anniversary of my nativity draws nearer, I'm getting all those lovely automated greetings. Which is fine... until this downright offensive piece of crap made its way to my inbox today.
Yeah. Screw you too, NFL.com. That's not even funny.
My lone indulgence since moving that's not work-related clothing or apartment necessities arrived-- my BPAL order. I ordered Death Cap and Wolf's Heart, plus imps of Black Cat, Nuit, Ophelia, Anne Bonny, Mary Read, and Vasilissa. I got Deep in Earth again as a frimp (nice, but it smells way too much like an ex's cologne for comfort), plus Alice, Night-Gaunt, Has No Hanna, Santo Domingo, and Cockaigne. I don't really dig on smelling like food (other than ginger notes), so Cockaigne is out. Anne Bonny is amazing. I definitely need a full bottle. It's all woodsy, salt air, and hints of incense. I gravitate towards fresh woodsy, spicy scents with a touch of incense and unusual florals, so that's a bingo. I'd wonder what that says about my personality if I wasn't already certain that I'm all mixed up. Heh. But, practically speaking, I'm going to continue to smell nice for a little while. Which is always good.
Speaking of indulgences, I don't know what my birthday present to myself will be just yet. Two weekends of sailing lessons, or...
The lessons are about twice the cost of the boots. There's only one pair of the boots left in my size in green, but the seasons are turning and there won't be an more time on the water until the spring. Decisions, decisions.