August 31, 2011
Of course I'll unscrew the top and take a sniff because I'm a masochist. The little bits of dried gel flake off, dusting my clothes in a fine, chalky powder. I'll wince as the particles waft up my nose. It smells like what can only be described as an armpit high-fiving the Adirondack mountains.
Maybe I'll even put a dab between my fingers and roll it around if I really hate my life. It has a gooey, sticky texture, like a giant's booger.
I'd consider tossing it in the trash but I know that'd be overstepping my bounds. Maybe he likes having it there in case he needs spiky hair for a Halloween costume? Who knows. I'll just toss the tub back in the drawer, wash my hands and pretend that this little crusty product run-in never happened.