Several months back, when I was ready to launch Chronotope, I began a series of stories on the brand’s Instagram that were intended to give a bit of information regarding who I am, what this brand would be about, and how I would approach outreach for the brand in its rollout—a statement of transparency promising that I would be forthright about reviewers and any others who would receive free samples from me. I never quite finished rounding out that particular series of stories. Midway through completing it, pigs in Minneapolis murdered George Floyd in cold blood and suddenly the national circumstances were such that my silly little comments about my silly little perfume brand didn’t matter anymore. I experienced something similar this week due to the shenanigans in DC instigated by Drumpo, the asshat, and Holey and Cruise, who have all legitimately obstructed not just the pursuit of justice and progress in this country, but also the ability for businesses to operate and for people to work, for families to maintain cohesion, and for life itself here to survive—much less attempt to thrive.
As the saying goes: lefties fall in love; righties fall in line. He was the candidate that right-wing functionaries chose to elevate, so he was the one who claimed all those in their line. They stood hypnotized in their red caps. The publishers and CEOs of the nation’s TV stations, newspapers and internet outlets wanted new toys, yachts or whatever, so they gave him more than two billion dollars of free media placement for his product range, which included xenophobia, sexism and racism, dogwhistling and doing the RahRah-NoKumbaya.
The spraytanned charlatan and his boys tried to stage a coup. After four years of constant and intentional attempts to inflame the absolute worst tumors that linger in the grey matter of the national psyche, they finally poked at them so hard those cancers burst. This after months of all the godawful whining about how Donnyboy would experience the worst oppression ever—which is not being president, of course—because the mail and Georgia happen to exist. This after the phone call leak that exposed him pressuring Georgia’s secretary of state to invent ballots enough for him to win by exactly one. This after he’s sat an entire presidential term in the oval office lighting the world on fire and blaming the fire on centrists and ANTIFA.
All he had was lies on lies. Remember how even 300 hamberders became 1000 in, like, five tweets?
During his bid for the office he never deserved and was always unfit to hold, he shrugged off women he’d sexually assault and incited violence against dissidents at his campaign rallies—particularly when the dissidents weren’t white and viciously so when they were women who weren’t white. He lashed out toward press corps who reported on his past and present by simply quoting the actual words that came out of his mouth. He encouraged his followers to lash out at the press corps, too, for daring to quote the words that came out of mouth. Shortly after assuming office, he shot an actual turd out of his mouth when he equated self-proclaimed Nazis with ANTIFA. Later, he picked that turd up and ate it as he demonized ANTIFA but failed to denounce self-proclaimed Nazis. He ate that turd right in front of our salads.
He somehow (was it magic?) made the high priestess of wretchedness, Accursed Annie Coulter, sound rational not even a few months into his presidency, when she began shrieking about how he was turning his back on his campaign promises already and engaging his “light the world on fire” mode. He was abandoning his supporters and the goals of the modern conservative movement’s tea party populism, she said. She could not believe it, but she was realizing he was maybe even one of the worst, and she wanted everyone to know. His supporters, though, were already hypnotized underneath their red caps. And they’d long since become deaf due to the volume of their own collective oo-ing and ahh-ing that echoed through the interiors of stadiums at his rallies. Because she was looking triggered, like a snowflake-social-justice-warrior-cuck, they said she was a triggered snowflake-social-justice-warrior-cuck, and they abandoned Accursed Annie after years of insisting she was the high priestess.
He tossed, like, four rolls of paper towels into a crowd of scared, injured, hungry and newly homeless Puerto Ricans who’d barely survived the most devastating hurricane on record as if they were fans at a basketball game squealing for free merch. He slandered the territory’s governor. To be sure the Puerto Ricans knew how much he didn’t like them he said “pwertuhhhhreekah.” His immigrant wife, who always looks as if she is never not eyeballing some dreamy future way off in the distance, when he’s dead and she can enjoy life without him and his skin tags, stood nearby, squinting at everything and nothing in particular, as if she were communicating telepathically with the void, willing the pills to kick in already.
Tonight I’m angry, spiteful. It’s a good thing I’ve got a project to finish. I’ve been channelling this feeling into it. The EdP is still coming. I’m not rushing myself to meet an arbitrary deadline because I’d rather offer my customers the best perfume I can muster and not some inferior piece of work. This is the luxury of operating my own shop I suppose. I realize I’m making you wait. I just won’t offer you anything but my best.
Those who never put on one of his caps saw what all the signs actually meant: he had jack shit for business savvy. He didn’t pay people who worked for him. He touted a decades-long track record of brutal racism. He couldn’t form a complete sentence when he spoke. He’d sexually assaulted many women. He bulldozed ancient dunes in Ireland. He was an entitled brat and an idiot. The lawsuits and settlements clanged behind him like aluminum cans on a JUST MARRIED Oldsmobile. But he was useful to the right, so if anyone said anything about what he had done in his past before they were called lousy-triggered-lying-postmodern-ANTIFA-snowflake-communist-liberal-socialist cucks and thrown away just like Accursed Annie.
If I were going to make a traditional essay out of this, I’d likely make a claim about the consequences of elevating a snake oil salesman who cynically spoonfeeds an unknowing audience bullshit in favor of propping up lies and falsehoods. I’d argue it should be no surprise when that public demonstrates intense skepticism and distrust toward anyone who tries to present empirical and easily verifiable data that corrects the misinformation the charlatan has fed them. From there, I’d likely continue on to write about how the fragrance industry has committed this social crime over the years, too, as it has assisted in the elevation of figureheads who peddle anti-science and abjectly terrible misinformation regarding materials sourcing and production, not to mention health and well-being, into consumers’ unknowing hands.
He made so many tweets. He was the best tweeter. There has never been a better more good tweeter than him. He was talking to some fans earlier and they said, you are the best tweeter…
COVID-19’s arrival meant that everyone in the country had a chance to meet death under the Big Elephant-Sized Dump’s regime. This thrilled him. Instead of soothing the ailing nation, he lit fires under the asses of the trigger-happy Proud Boys and gun-lovin’ militia groups. He ignored science and his team leaned on the “alternative facts” they insisted are actually a thing while simultaneously aligning with and applauding that one nasal-voiced talking head that won’t stop begging AOC for feet pics, grunting during John Lennon songs and saying “FaCtS dOnT cArE aBoUt YeR fEeLinGs.”
For five or so years, when cameras faced him and his wife, we saw the extent of her loathing toward him, how he physically repulses her. She ripped her hand away from him when he tried to hold it. She turned from him when he’d try to kiss her and wiped her face with her wrist like a cat. She sat socially distanced from him at dinners years before “socially distanced” became a commonplace piece of terminology. Her dislike of him was so visible, so tangible, spiteful even. But she was complicit in his actions. Remember the coat that read “I Don’t Care, Do U?” during her trip to the Texas border to visit the refugees her husband’s regime had shoved into cages? Remember how she rejoiced that she was “driving liberals crazy”?
Spite EdP is, at least, shaping up nicely. It’s full of meaty, mean artichoke absolute and tuberose, pungent and smoky sumac, Iranian galbanum and luxe white rose. Green sacra frankincense pierces through every layer of the whole perfume, and it all hovers on thick foggy layer of orris that is not an orris (that is not an orris, but only the impression of orris via an accord built on rhatany root. This accord has been the key technical problem to solve for in order to finish the perfume.) As much as possible, I’ve attempted to keep my hands away from materials you’ve already smelled in the EdT, all while creating a perfume that you’ll be able to recognize as Spite. I did this because I wanted to challenge myself to push beyond duping my own formula, maybe making a few tweaks here and there, and changing the percentage of its concentration. I knew I could do better than that.
Many families will watch his presidential term—four years that represent a permanent stain on not just national but global history—round to a close as we mourn the loss of one or more members of our families. Today, as I write this, his death toll from COVID-19 alone exceeds 361,000. He has so much blood on his hands. I think it’s blood at least. Sometimes he—oh no, FUCK, he did it again, GODDAMMIT DANNAL—
I could easily argue that the perfume industry’s insistence on secret-keeping and staying hush-hush has needlessly exacerbated its own problems, like whole townships banning perfume usage and consumers believing only naturals are healthy. For while its chosen (dishonest) figureheads have pumped consumers full of abjectly shitty ideas, it has failed to prop up, with equal amounts of pomp, and with just as loud a megaphone, experts with better information, people like scientists, who could have been—should have been—around to counter those godawful gurus and their asinine arguments so they could have been boo’ed off the stage.
Remember when he called Mexicans rapists? Remember when he deflected blame for and placed the full ownership of fault at the feet of his predecessor for the family separation policy that his, not his predecessor’s, regime began enforcing? It was under Donnykin’s watch that loads of refugee children were forcibly separated from their parents and refugees were locked inside chickenwire cages in concentration camps where they were frequently physically, mentally and even sexually abused. Some of the women were forced to have hysterectomies. Some of the children never saw their parents again. Others were trafficked, under the full awareness and approval of Dunghole’s regime, to US households. Some of the children got lost in our nation’s ghastly foster care system. Some of them died, and so did some of their parents. And when COVID-19 arrived, even more refugees died—both the children and the parents.
My favorite scene in the movie Cold Mountain, a movie that looks very good until you realize it is making very questionable subject matter look very good, is also Renee Zellweger’s best bit of acting, when she says “Ever’ piece a’ this is man’s bullshit. They call this war a cloud over the land. But they made the weather, and then they stand in the rain and say SHIT IT’S RAININ!” Is Ruby’s flash of wisdom here, about the effects of the Civil War, not exactly what we’re experiencing as a nation now? Again?
This Spite is deeper and more personal and embittered, more vengeful and livid and pissed and destructive. Far less blustery-cool. More raw. If the EdT was an exploration of how it feels when someone behaves spitefully toward you, the EdP is a manifestation of the rage that undergirds the spiteful impulse within. If the EdT expresses the windy whip of frozen air you feel when another gives you the cold shoulder, the EdP seethes a venomous acid green, like the eyes of the monster that lives under the bed. It’s waiting for someone to get close enough that it can lash out and sever their achilles tendon. And it says fuck that luxe white rose it features almost as hard, yet absolutely as clearly, as I say this:
Fuck Donald Trump.
I will, I know, eventually return to the essay that makes more sense, the one I got distracted from. I hope the next time I sit down to write something meaningful in support of Chronotope there isn’t yet another damn national crisis that breaks out when I’m only halfway finished. My record on this end so far isn’t looking too hot. (Is it a curse?) But maybe third time’s a charm. For now, I’ve got little else to say via writing.
And on that note, covfefe.