Once upon a time, I had a friend whose favorite smell in all the world
was the smell of the earth after rain. He told me once, almost
seriously, that if I could make my hair smell just like the air after a
rainstorm, he would marry me and devote the rest of his life to
worshipping my hair.
We do not have that smell here. It's been a wet week, and this morning
everything -- my apartment complex, my school ten miles away, my car,
and probably my justly unworshipped hair -- smells like the back end of
an old stone drainpipe clogged with rancid meat and rotten vegetables
and used paper napkins.
This is one of many reasons I hope to move home to Nebraska when I
finish my degree.
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