Berdoues - Tabac

Whomping tobacco-vanilla-musk thing that I can feel throbbing in my gut. It opened with a tremendous aw(e inspiring)ful roasted green, vegetal note that was like rainforests (bulbous trunks, palm sap) being burnt down and slashed open with machetes (beetle husks). I feel kind of ill. I nearly wrote "kill" instead of "ill." That's true too. This shit probably causes tumours in lab rats. I probably have 72 IFRA-restricted materials on my wrist. Is there such a thing as a slapping machine? It would be a 1930s sham weight-loss contraption consisting of wire egg beaters and rubber mallets attached to wide elastic bands that would buffet your body. Smelling this feels physically exhausting. It's like a mutant Queen Kong Habanita if she were into financial humiliation and screaming at you to give up your bank card while threatening to singe you with cheap fags. Oh god, I'm so tired. How am I supposed to live life (make dinner? go to the marche? live life?) while I have this fucking reverse IV-drip on my arm? I want to cry.
Orientals: I can't do them.
This possibly smells like the scene in Hisayasu Sato's Naked Blood where the girl starts to tempura-fry her own limbs, but I'm too busy dry-heaving to make sure.