Confessions of a Fragrance Addict

They say the first step is admitting it.
All right, I’ll admit it: I’m a fragrance addict.

I have been known to rifle thorough my perfume collection like a junkie in desperate need of a fix.
My friends call my place the House of Fragrance.
My most prized possession is my extensive fragrance collection.
I feel naked without perfume.
I can recite the notes of most scents the way some men can rattle off sports statistics.
Forget cheap air fresheners and potpourris. I scent my place with eau de parfum.
I don’t understand people who don’t wear perfume/cologne.
My motto is, “life is too short to smell bad.”
Cologne is the biggest turn on in my opinion.
I have mourned the loss of a broken bottle of perfume as deeply as I have the death of a loved one.
I spray on perfume before going to bed.
If I were ever to make it to Paris, I’d spend the whole trip visiting the fragrance houses. (Forget the Eiffel Tower and other historical places, give me Givenchy, Guerlain and Lutens).
I base my outfits around what perfume I want to wear, not vice versa.
I can’t tell you where my spleen is, but I know the locations of all nine pulse points.
When I made the list of my absolute favorite fragrances, then edited it, and then edited it some more, I was still left with 35 scents.
I actually wrote down that list.
I have been caught sniffing empty fragrance vials longingly, like a sentimental person going through an old photo album.
All the French I know was learned through a love of fragrance.
My sniffer is finer tuned to identifying fragrances than most auto mechanics ears are to engines.