Black Friday Poison: The Decant I Actually Wanted To Wear

If you need an excuse to choose a scent with attitude, Black Friday is perfect. Or, if you’re me, it’s also Buy Nothing Day, with a side of Native American Heritage Day reflection and National French Toast Day cravings. It is also a birthday roll call that reads like a mood board: William Blake for incense and fire, Nancy Mitford for wit, Berry Gordy for groove, Randy Newman for bite, Jon Stewart for the side-eye, Martin Clunes for offbeat charm.

Today’s community prompt is wickedly simple: pick your poison. Wear the last fragrance you bought, wear a cheap thrill, or wear the one you love yet refuse to buy full size because your bank account has boundaries. I’m squarely in the third camp, wearing a tidy little decant of Imaginary Authors Dipped in Chocolate.

Let’s be honest, chocolate in perfume can turn tacky fast. This one doesn’t. The opening lands like warm cocoa dust that floats rather than clobbers, then softens into something bittersweet, think ganache that flirted with smoke. There is that Imaginary Authors bookish vibe, a paper-and-ink hush under the dessert. On skin, it behaves with restraint, never collapsing into syrup, and that is exactly why the decant makes sense. I adore the mood, I do not need 100 ml of midnight patisserie staring me down every morning.

Would William Blake approve of a chocolate tyger burning bright? Possibly. Nancy Mitford would quip that it’s chic only if you don’t over-spray. Berry Gordy would ask for a bassline, which here is a dry, almost woody hum that keeps the sugar honest. Randy Newman would crack a joke about guilty pleasures. Jon Stewart would see the irony of a Buy Nothing Day spritz. Martin Clunes would probably be charming about it anyway.

If your wrist wants comfort without capitulation, consider the decant route. Cheap thrills have their place, last-bought bottles deserve their turn, but today I wanted a whisper of indulgence that doesn’t demand a cart or a commitment. Imaginary Authors Dipped in Chocolate gave me exactly that, like French toast in a silk slip, with the door locked and the world on mute.