KALAH ALLEN

I can smell you from across the room as soon as you open the door. When you come up to the counter, I'm sorry I can't provide you with my usual top-notch customer service, but I'm too busy choking on whatever the shit is that you submerge yourself in. I try breathing through my mouth, but it turns my stomach. I don't care if what you wear is $250 a bottle, or if it's 100 percent all-natural hand-pressed essential oils of some rare Amazonian blossom, or if it's the purest vaginal secretions of the last living fucking unicorn—it makes me seriously sick. Maybe you've lost your olfactory sense and honestly don't know why birds fall from the sky and insects die around you everywhere you go. However afraid you might be, for whatever reason, of your natural body odor, it cannot be worse than the shit you subject me to daily. Next time you go out in public maybe try leaving the bath of eternal stench in the bottle at home. Without the stomach-wrenching cloud of artificial stank that surrounds you, you might actually be attractive.—Anonymous