Seventh

It's the last day. I'm a little disappointed.

I'm not exactly going to miss the many and various odours that the different parts of me are currently producing, not exactly. There is a strange sort of comfort to be had from your own smell though. The one produced at about armpit level that is; any lower than the waist and things can be a bit shocking.

How do I know this without some kind of unnatural contortion, you ask? Why, scratch and sniff, my friend. Good old tried and tested scratch and sniff...

Maybe not disappointed, more preemptively nostalgic. I am the source of a variety of distinct odours. Not strong necessarily, but present, and mine.

You see, the actual experience of being dirty really hasn't been a problem. The associated social awkwardness hasn't been great, and no-one really enjoys celibacy, but being unwashed is fine. In some ways it's strangely comforting. I smell undeniably of myself.

Not that I'm not keen to wash. I can't wait to soak in a bath; it's going to be unbelievably good; but that's because lying in the bath is brilliant, not because I desire to be cleansed. I really miss warm water. I really, really miss warm water.

This is all starting to sound a little perverse, possibly even perverted. Probably a good thing it ends tomorrow.