I live with severe, lifelong clinical depression. When I’m in a major depressive episode, I feel an intense and visceral animal need to surround myself with my smell. For that reason, I rarely change my bedding. I like the goaty, barn smell my blankets develop. It comforts me to wrap myself in them when I’m feeling empty and hurt.
More than one roommate has complained about the stench of my blankets because there is a cultural bias against the smell of human. We’re supposed to smell like lilacs or pine trees or lemons or the anal sac of a deer, but not like an actual human. As a result, I just don’t live with others any more, which means I can keep my crusty blanket and smoke as many pipes as I like.
Fuck all y’all who don’t like it.