(admittedly, one of many)
Okay, it’s four in the morning. I’m a bit high so my decision-making’s off. I’m exhausted and am climbing into bed, when I notice my bed smells weird. Not a pleasant, surprising weird, but the sort of weird stench that blows from either the drooling maws of Cerberus, or from an eighteen-year-olds bedsheets when they’ve not been washed in about five months. I knew this was especially bad, because I don’t really have a functional sense of smell, so for me to smell anything means it’s insanely pungent, and for me to smell something bad means it’s odour probably resembles that of a Victorian street urchin coated in marmite.
So, in my sleep-deprived, high-as-frak widsom, I decided to spray my bed and all of its clothes with Lynx. I’m a fan of this relentlessly and unnecessarily masculinised piece of shirking on taking a shower every morning, because it’s smelly enough to operate in place of air freshener, and despite being a rather pleasant odour, it’s also strong enough so that people will immediately know that you’ve sprayed it under your armpits instead of having a proper wash, so it’s its own deterrent against being used too regularly.
And, having just coated my bed in this internationally-recognised ‘I’m a douchebag’ sign, I jumped into bed, wrapped myself in my duvet, and prepared to go to sleep. A whole half a microsecond passed before my nose started burning, my eyes were watering, and I was already bitterly regretting the decision I had made not five minutes ago; I tried to sleep in what was ultimately a Fungus the Bogeyman-style cesspit, and hadn’t realised this was a bad idea.
Now, I’ll give sleeping another go; I’ve spent fifteen minutes writing this post, and the smell is starting to dissipate. But if there isn’t a post tomorrow, assume I’ve been killed by that most deadly of teenage threats: overuse of shitty, expensive deodorant.