C’mon Baby Light My Fire

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An addendum to my Home Improvement
obsession: honey vanilla candles are hallucinatory.

The candles were an impulse purchase, part of my redecorating frenzy, when I was gripped by seizures of maniacal dusting, sheets buying, furniture fantasies, and Lysol lust. At night, before going to bed, I would light the candle, enjoying the yummy, clean vanilla scent wafting around the room.

I thought, “Aaah… this is peaceful. I can drift off to sleep now, visions of scented sugarplums dancing in my head.”

Little did I know that honey vanilla is a deadly, most sinister combination. On the first night that I lit that innocent white wick, I dreamt of tiramisu. I swear. The next day, I found myself at Bo’s, furtively gulping hot coffee to wash down the slice of yes—tiramisu. Uh-uh. The next night, I was dreaming about rum cake, and the next day, I was digging into it immediately after lunch, a dazed look (presumably) on my face. Oh, and the plot thickens! This entire week I have been eating and eating a mountain of desserts—moist choco surprises, carrot cakes, chocolate decadence, éclairs, revel bars—oh the pounds!

Falling asleep to the scent of honey vanilla has conditioned me to gravitate, no, head directly to the sugar section. I blame it on the smell. It’s so yummy, it’s gone to my head. Not to mention straight to my waist. Be warned people, honey vanilla candles are the devil’s creation.

Now what would have happened if, instead of honey vanilla, I chose those candles with the musk scent?