BFSK S. (best friend since kindergarten) gifted me with a candle for Christmas. A candle she lovingly crafted with her very own two hands. I never knew S. had such talents. Secretly, I was pleased, because this means that in the future when S. is too old and senile to be a nurse, but rather requires the assistance of a nurse, I shall be the one to assume the duties. I am after all 3 months younger.
There is no doubt that we will end up together in a singlewide trailer surrounded by four or five yapping toothless poodles. S. will make candles. I will peddle them from my shopping buggy on the streets of Stop 6 so we can buy Miller High Life and Lotto tickets.
The candle is blue. It has a very familiar scent that I was not able to put my finger on. I think S. may have bestowed the mystery candle on me in an attempt to drive me insane. I would not put it past her. She may be holding a grudge from all of the trouble I got her into in the eighth grade. I love her, but she scares me a little.
It became an obsession this candle, like having a word on the tip of your tongue and not being able to think of it. I moved it from the bathroom to the kitchen so I could be closer to it. I asked everyone who came over to identify the scent. No one knew.
To preserve what little is left of my good mental health I decided to let it go. I would call the smell the scent of love. S. loves me. I love her. I love candles. It makes sense if you think about it. My brain reluctantly agreed. Game over. Love it is. It was time to move on and obsess about other things.
This morning it hit me. This candle? The terrifying, mind-melting candle of doom? It smells exactly like a Cabbage Patch Kid. Apparently, adoration and flaming rubber dolls smell strikingly similar.