The bottle is gorgeous. I want it to hold all my secrets and mist me with strength and sex and knowledge.
It doesn’t.
Instead, I am sprayed with slush and rock-salt from a road plow, and pelted with rotting strawberries, and wow, does Thierry Mugler ever blow loud and long on that truck horn.
Whew. Not for me.

All the love for this woman–and I adore this salty song.