About 5 years ago, the local hippie store was going out of business,

and they had a fire sale on everything, the African and Native American artifacts made in China, the wheat dresses, the hemp condoms and vegan non-GMO free range cage free organic tampons, EVERYTHING, so I bought both a metric and standard shitload of incense.

It was like real incense, too, frankincense (invented by some guy named Frank), and myrrh, Tibetan temple incense, that shit the Catholics wave around in those cans like they’re fumagating the place, real good stuff, you know? None of that perfumey, 16 year old girl “Desert Rain” and “Misty Midnight” crap. Man’s incense. Incense with balls and hair and sweat and guns. Incense that watched football and hocked loogies and worked on trucks.

Well, I’m burning the last stick of it right this moment and you know what? I don’t think I’m going to get anymore. I think I’m going to move on to potpourri. I’m tired of ashes being all over the stand in the corner where I display my beloved thimble collection (I have one from every state!). I’m tired of my neighbor assuming I’m a pothead and then becoming confused at my playing of Merle Haggard.

I’m just tired.

Potpourri is low maintenance. You stick it in a bowl and forget about it. Sure, it doesn’t smell as much, but I can always dump it out in the middle of the floor, light it on fire, and dance naked around it while rubbing my nipples and chanting to the Old Gods.

Yep. I can always do that.