I’m The One Who Can Smell What The Rock Is Cooking

I’d say I’m a pretty normal woman. I enjoy concerts, sci-fi novels, and playing softball. I eat well, don’t do drugs, and exercise regularly. There is, however, one affliction that I have to endure that affects my ability to live a normal life. I’m the one who can smell what The Rock is cooking.

At all times, without fail, I can smell it. It hangs in the air and overpowers my olfactory senses. I am unable to smell anything else. New car smell, Christmas cookies, the musky scent of my boyfriend’s cologne. It’s all gone.

The smell. Oh God, the smell. It’s so thick I sometimes feel that I can taste the air. It’s like nothing I’ve ever smelled before. It’s like BO and raw meat rolled into one. It’s as if someone took a dead raccoon, reanimated it, imbued it with hope, and then sprayed Axe bodyspray on it.

There are some days where I’m so used to it that I barely notice it at all. Then, like an errant wave pulling someone out to sea, it consumes me.

It’s worse when he has sex. The air becomes thicker and wetter. My temple begins to throb, and “Come Away With Me” by Norah Jones starts playing, but only I can hear it. I missed my son’s first words during one of the Rock’s 6 hour sex romps.

My friends don’t believe me. They say it’s impossible. They say that the smell could be the aromatic manifestation of the masculinity of any celebrity, but that it’s probably not The Rock. But I know that it is.

I tried leaving the country, but the smell pins me down. Every time I try to get away from it it just gets worse. I’m stuck here. Stuck in the putrid fragrance of Dwayne Johnson’s robust bouquet.

I both crave and fear his death, because there’s no way of knowing if that will lift this curse or drown me in it.

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