It is not too much, Gary, to ask that I be used sparingly? I am not a men’s body spray. I am not insect repellent. I am not a room deodorizer meant to eliminate the lingering scent of a family pet. I cannot be measured by the handful and dumped without consideration. Do I need to come with instructions?

I am an aromatic gift reserved for special occasions and important events; a subtle evanescent presence that alerts those around you to your good taste and refined sensibilities. I should be clinging to the neck of ambassadors, treating the nasal passages of dignitaries, and garnering the attention and arousal of beautiful women of the theater. But what refinement do you possess? Stains on your collars, open shirts, chest hair, and jogging suits. You invite ridicule and shame. Passersby snicker. Children tremble. I demand better, Gary.

Why must I be despised by your colleagues? Why do I irritate the customers in line, who, like you, crave a value meal? Why must I be fanned from the faces of your roommates? Why I am the cause of so many coughs, sneezes, and gags? Why did the lady waitress at Applebee’s ask to switch tables with a colleague after I induced a migraine?

I bring tears to eyes. Stings to noses. Aches to heads. Convulsions to nervous systems. It’s humiliating.

This was not my destiny. I was created to attract, not repel. When I was mixed, my benefactor envisioned an existence far greater. I was to be appreciated and commented upon endearingly. I should be sprayed on well-written correspondence and mailed to the loving hands of a distant lover, not on your genitals as an indelicate replacement for a shower.

Now but a quarter bottle of me remains, and my dreams are as inconstant as my body. I am dew at dawn, evaporating in the morning light. I am autumn’s leaves blown from a tree into an open storm drain. So, please, I beg you, show some respect for my design and with discretion use me for my intended purpose. I do not wish to only be smelt, Gary-I demand to be heard.