Artbox Pheramones

After the fantastic hug, she smiled at me and said, "...you smell nice..."

"Thank you.", I said as I returned the smile, genuinely touched.

"You smell like crayons..."

I SMELL LIKE CRAYONS!?

Woah! Whiplash! Wha-huh? I smell like crayons?! How does someone just smell like crayons? I do a quick assessment of the various smells that could possibly emanate from me. I showered recently, I used a powder fresh deodorant/antiperspirant, and I light spray of Axe. Perhaps a fiant taint of that philly cheesestaek, and I remember asking for no onions. Either way, I don't remember melting Crayolas upon me at any time. How does one just acquire the scent of a child's art box?

The internet is great for two things: porn and information, in that order. Time to use the world wide web as it was intended for finally. A quick "google" of crayons and smell supplied me with an interesting, if not scary, connection... reference to Volkeswagen cars. specifically, New beetles.

Yes, it seems that, for some odd reason, the VW new Beetles have this unique aroma: melted crayons. Could be worse, I suppose. If I had to choose a smell from a car to have on me 24/7, I guess this is acceptible. I mean, I've smelled a hell of a lot worse from the public. Young teens who think that washing once a month is passable if you just throw on a hoodie and a slanted ball cap. Olds people who obviously need to rinse once in the while. I've smelled musky BO long before a person arrives, and lingers in a cloud long after they leave.

Have you even been in a geek-ville comic book/hobbie store? Anyone who has can atest to this: the potency and horror of pungent body odor intensifies off the young customers, the farther back you go in the store. With the kids in the from brousing the comic racks having a bathless fume, to the career minature wargame battle mat player regulars, who have never seen the wet side of a bar of soap, nor will never know the sweet caress of a woman...ever...

I've even survived an old guy while working retail that smelled like a sack of crap. Trying to choke back the gag reflex and bile, while listening to his questions. Subtily manuvoring myself downwind or near a vent, just to get a breath, as he was oblivious to the power of his stench. The power to demolish mountains: just by pooping your own pants.

I was ready to blame my job, and sue their collective asses that they've somehow changed my DNA. That they've replaced my blood with Rose Art wax sented chalk. I knew working with office supplies would somehow mutate me. Why couldn't I smell like a ream of paper, wipe board erasers, or even the toxic fumes of a sharpie? Now THATS a coolass power!

I guess crayons aren't so bad, huh? If I smelled like caca, I'm rather certain that I don't think I would have gotten that hug. And, really, its kind of a nice feeling that when you pass by a "back to school" display at any market or store...

perhaps, someone will think of me.