doomsday_disco

Well, he was humming this hum to himself, and walking along gaily, wondering what everybody else was doing, and what it felt like, being somebody else, when suddenly he came to a sandy bank, and in the bank was a large hole. “Aha!” said Pooh. (Rum-tum-tiddle-um-tum.) “If I know anything about anything, that hole means Rabbit,” he said, “and Rabbit means Company,” he said, “and Company means Food and Listening-to-Me-Humming and such like. Rum-tum-tum-tiddle-um.” So he bent down, put his head into the hole, and called out: “Is anybody at home?” There was a sudden scuffling noise from inside the hole, and then silence. “What I said was, ‘Is anybody at home?'” called out Pooh very loudly. “No!” said a voice; and then added, “You needn’t shout so loud. I heard you quite well the first time.” “Bother!” said Pooh. “Isn’t there anybody here at all?” “Nobody.” Winnie-the-Pooh took his head out of the hole, and thought for a little, and he thought to himself, “There must be somebody there, because somebody must have said ‘Nobody.'” So he put his head back in the hole, and said: “Hallo, Rabbit, isn’t that you?” “No,” said Rabbit, in a different sort of voice this time. “But isn’t that Rabbit’s voice?” “I don’t think so,” said Rabbit. “It isn’t meant to be.” “Oh!” said Pooh. He took his head out of the hole, and had another think, and then he put it back, and said: “Well, could you very kindly tell me where Rabbit is?” “He has gone to see his friend Pooh Bear, who is a great friend of his.” “But this is Me!” said Bear, very much surprised. “What sort of Me?” “Pooh Bear.” “Are you sure?” said Rabbit, still more surprised. “Quite, quite sure,” said Pooh. “Oh, well, then, come in.” So Pooh pushed and pushed and pushed his way through the hole, and at last he got in. “You were quite right,” said Rabbit, looking at him all over. “It is you. Glad to see you.” “Who did you think it was?” “Well, I wasn’t sure. You know how it is in the Forest. One can’t have anybody coming into one’s house. One has to be careful. What about a mouthful of something?” Pooh always liked a little something at eleven o’clock in the morning, and he was very glad to see Rabbit getting out the plates and mugs; and when Rabbit said, “Honey or condensed milk with your bread?” he was so excited that he said, “Both,” and then, so as not to seem greedy, he added, “But don’t bother about the bread, please.” And for a long time after that he said nothing … until at last, humming to himself in a rather sticky voice, he got up, shook Rabbit lovingly by the paw, and said that he must be going on. “Must you?” said Rabbit politely. “Well,” said Pooh, “I could stay a little longer if it—if you——” and he tried very hard to look in the direction of the larder. “As a matter of fact,” said Rabbit, “I was going out myself directly.” “Oh, well, then, I’ll be going on. Good-bye.” “Well, good-bye, if you’re sure you won’t have any more.” “Is there any more?” asked Pooh quickly. Rabbit took the covers off the dishes, and said, “No, there wasn’t.” “I thought not,” said Pooh, nodding to himself. “Well, good-bye. I must be going on.” The Hundred Acre Wood’s resident Virgo (affectionate). The scent of neat rows and polite refusals: toasted oats and clover honey, crushed lemon verbena, wild carrot leaf, and white tea poured with exacting care. A dab of condensed milk on a clean spoon, a faint rustle of vetiver, and a courteous cough to suggest that your visit has gone on quite long enough.

Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh. When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, “But I thought he was a boy?” “So did I,” said Christopher Robin. “Then you can’t call him Winnie?” “I don’t.” “But you said——” “He’s Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?” “Ah, yes, now I do,” I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get. Honey-slathered buttered toast, glittering amber beams of sunlight, warm milk, cotton stuffing, and cuddly roasted vanilla.

On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: “Now is it true, or is it not, “That what is which and which is what?” On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it’s true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose—but whose are these? On Friday—— Hot, sunny cardamom amber and milky musk, honeyed rice and snowy slush.

A tribute to the squeaky plastic rats that haunt every Halloween bin — adorable little horrors with gleaming eyes and crooked tails. Shiny black licorice, grey amber, and a dusting of smoky black pepper.

By loving friends you are surrounded, Oh, be not blind to this, I pray. They wish that joy and mirth unbounded May crown your happy Christmas day. Winter oak, hazelnuts, and butterscotch rum.

A goblet of pale liquid gold infused with an almost iridescent shimmer of lavender essence.

Each purchase of Gloomily, Gloomily comes with a 1/32 oz imp of the Donkey’s Tail. The Donkey’s Tail is not available for sale on its own, and make sure you keep it safe as you never know where it might end up. “That Accounts for a Good Deal,” said Eeyore gloomily. “It Explains Everything. No Wonder.” Doubles as a bell-pull: a beribboned strip of French lavender, bourbon vanilla, silver thistle, grey musk, pink silk, and well-loved grey cotton.

Vanilla and Tobacco Flower.

War of the Roses? Not anymore! After years of fragrant hostilities, BPAL’s Reigning Yule Queens, Snow White and Rose Red, lay down their arms. Two beloved Yule blends are bound together at last: frost-bright petals and deep, blood-warm rose, entwined with winter air and the green snap of freshly cut stems. A hard-won peace, sealed in perfume: cold beauty and velvet warmth.

I’m honestly not sure if this is actually a New Year’s card, but for the sake of this project, let’s say it is. Your ancient ones are welcome? I misunderstood the card when I first saw it, and my brain translated it to an invocation to the Great Old Ones, Outer Gods, Elder Gods, or Dreamlands’ Great Ones, so let’s run with that, too. This scent is no mere nut of hearth and harvest, but a squamous chestnut, born of ancient groves whose roots knot through strata older than memory, necrophagous and ravenous, sucking nutrients from long-buried carrion. A whiff of roasted shell, scorched coffee bean, and smoldering husk billowing in tenebrous clouds of nutty, cacodaemonical incense. Beneath this lies a resinous sweetness, dry and fungal, as though the chestnut had ripened not beneath familiar suns but under a swollen, unwholesome moon. A paean to the dad jokes that the King in Yellow tells his kids, this chestnut’s warmth carries the faint echo of a pun told too many times and the comforting dread of knowing the punchline before it lands.

Boldog ujevet! Bubblegum musk, fermented plum, and strawberry brandy in a white candyfloss-dusted fairy ring of ruby-capped mushrooms and marshmallow cream.

Golden hay and sun-warmed straw, soft brown fur musk, ripe banana peel and green fig, steamed rice and almond milk, mimosa blossom, and pale yellow chrysanthemum.

A scandalous affair between silk-furred conspirators: tails entwined beneath tables, furrrrtive glances stolen and held too long, stolen hours, arched backs, and the scent of unfamiliar catnip rubbed on jeweled collars. An indolent purr of cream-soaked shortbread biscuits, cracked cardamom, pink pepper, smoked vanilla bean, and cocoa powder.

May you skillfully dodge all of life’s chamberpots while the blessings of the new year splash upon ya. Clean snowmelt touched with lemon peel, clover leaves, sugared almonds, and glimmering amber coins.

Wishing you and your cocks a happy new year. Red peppercorns and gingersnaps.

Here’s hoping 2026 is less an endless replay of spectacular wipeouts and fail videos and more a year that finally sticks the landing. Leather tack, saddle soap, bay rum, carmine wool, black silk, crushed winter grass, a billowing cascade of pipe tobacco, and a shot of adrenaline.

Once in a while, I am truly at a loss for words. Oat porridge and cream, smoky treacle, clove bud, crushed sugar cookies, and pink currants.

“O father, see yonder! see yonder!” he says; “My boy, upon what doest thou fearfully gaze?” — “O, ’tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud.” “No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud.” A dread shape forms in the mist: chilled white musk, rain-soaked earth, and a gleam of blackened steel.

Every leaf tells a story.

Disclaimer: this perfume oil is not blue, it is not combustible, and it is not caffeinated.

A velvety, sophisticated concoction for the ages!

Often found napping in office cubicles and unrented studio apartments, this dragon is too apathetic to be evil and too bored to bother with goodness. She doesn’t hoard gold; she collects neutral-toned throw pillows, unread magazines, and Live Laugh Love-branded décor. Their scales are a rainbow of oatmeal, sandalwood, almond milk, tea-stained vanilla, and undyed wool in a muted eggshell finish.

A scent inspired by the debris left over from frantic last-minute costuming sessions. Torn scraps of velvety black voodoo lily mingled with dried rose petals and a flash of red peppercorn.

Dead Leaves and Mulling Spices.

A burst of summer sun to treasure during the icy months ahead.