It is rare for me, this kind of neglect. I partly blame it on the cold, and partly on the fact that I am one of three cats now inhabiting this flat. Maybe I’ve wanted to make sure my territory is clearly defined? Who knows…? Whatever the reason, I haven’t washed for about four days.
I’m running a bath as I write, but I didn’t notice. I’m wearing a singlet vest. (hi ladies)
I took my shirt off to reveal this vest to myself just now. It was a Scrooge costume undergarment originally. All my clothes are inherited. It leaves my armpits open to the air. And… I became very curious about the odour.
When I was in my twenties I stank. Now it’s nothing like so urgent, but I’m usually washing every night. Something made me fall off the habit temporarily. Not just the cold… I’ve been distracted. And I’ve been cat.
I’m not gonna write a whole blog about it, but this, it’s navel gazing anyway by sheer existing. Is there any difference between me curating information about the minutiae of my life and me sniffing my own armpits and enjoying the sensation?
I hung out with Stephanie and Donald this evening and they wanted to talk about my mum’s boyfriend, who died not so long ago. It was an evening. I wasn’t feeling sociable in the slightest, but Max and I showed up and we exchanged photos and there’s something so sincere about Stephanie that you have to believe she’s made up. Perhaps we just aren’t used to American values and sincerity here. I keep thinking she’s about to pull the plug. Maybe she’s just a brilliant kind thoughtful human. I’m still working it out. She came to one of my obscure plays once at Oval House Theatre. She is full of values, but I hear her pass judgement on others. I’m surprised she’s not doing the same about me. Perhaps she is, when the doors are closed. Or perhaps she’s just an uncomplicatedly kind person.
I’m home, stinking, to play with the catses and wait for my low water pressure bath to finally fill so I can reset my stink. But I’ll kinda miss it. I keep sticking my nose in with curiosity – “is this really the scent of me ?” There’s something primal about it all. I always avoided team sports but I washed obsessively as a teenager as the fucking children I was in my house with at school kept telling me I was greasy. Because they knew my grandfather was Spanish, or a “dago” as they put it, kinda missing the country as they aimed. But… I didn’t understand ignorance back then so thought it was literal, I thought I was “greasy” cos that’s the word that goes with Spic. I washed my hair with max strength shampoo sometimes 8 times a day. When I finally realised the extent to which they were assholes it blew a hole in my trust of men my age for decades.
I smell right now though proudly. It’s a good musky man scent. You could bottle it. Call it Posh Dago Espanol. It’ll be the next big hitter.
Too late though. My bath is run. With regret I’m gonna get into it and flush this wondrous odour forever. Well, until the next time. Just… just one more armpit sniff.
mmmm
“Hello, is that Tom Ford?”
AlBarclay 