When you get up in the morning, brush your teeth, comb your hair, open and clear your mind, and, well, take care of ALL manner of refreshment. No one should stay full of crap the whole day!"
Outright lies and deception are not exactly the same thing, though the first can easily be encased within the other and then excused as lesser fault. This duplicity is a well-worn tool of our times. And it stinks.
In these hard times-- Sometimes when I listen to the news I expect something sterile, antiseptic, or at least the vinegar of cleanup, but I instead encounter something or other akin to the happy movement of worms through shit and smell the flatulence of sick hearts. So what's wrong with me that I still tune in each day and still expect azaleas and euphony?
Today had a lovely smell. It had two seasons in it-- winter chill and the tease of spring just around the corner.
I miss the smell of my mother's house. I like to think if I could step inside it again-- it would still smell sweet, like ghosts of long-dead pies.
Odors are very persuasive. They can keep you in a place or make you leave quickly.
You can put a suit on dishonesty, or a velvet bag on garbage....but it still stinks.
Air is often filled with frolicking scents, sudden and fleeting, layered, that bring back gladness or sorrow.
Stink: the whistleblower of a neglected house.
In Spring, the earth smells of promise, in summer - flourish, in fall - fatigue, and in winter - death.
When it rains, the house is often haunted by olfactory ghosts of old experiences.
It is impossible to look good if you stink.
When the smell of digested food fills the air, the scent of an air freshener is little more than a hissing-rather-than-booming, second affront.
I have no desire to “walk a mile” in another person’s shoes. Mine are smelly enough.
Across the garbage heap, the wind was a great breath blown, violent with rejection, enough to set lungs to barking, coughing.
He drank too much, smelled like dark secrets marinated in alcohol.
I wonder if stink is sometimes a tool used by reclusive people to keep others away.
Odor makes hiding impossible.
The smell of a burning cigarette is like the barrel of a gun, shooting me back toward a lost love.
Once I smelled Polo on the street and followed (for three blocks) a man who must have been at least 90 years old.
I've made my share of bad choices, but most not because I didn't know better, rather because it was so darn much fun. Laughing, I just hung them out there on the line, and let the wind take the stink out of them.