I hate the smell of fake coconut. Plasticky, sharp to the nose, and sickeningly sweet in a way that does not occur in nature, it makes me think of cheap piña coladas and the sticky bottle of Malibu rum I hid in the way back of my parents’ liquor cabinet for all of eighth grade. It does not conjure fantasies of a faraway beach where sun-scorched islanders and tourists alike doze in the white sand beneath the palm trees and monkeys swing from branch to branch in the background, making that...


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