Among hardcore fragrance lovers, describing a perfume as “strange” or “odd” can sometimes be quite a compliment. This isn’t one of those times. I have never been to Coney Island, so I can’t comment on Bond’s accuracy to its subject. However, I am unfortunately still intimately acquainted with the smell of this perfume. You see, Coney Island smells like cheap margarita mix. It smells like a night out with the girls at a filthy, grimy frat house, the kind where you are forced to use coffee filters as toilet paper. Your best heels are slowly dissolving from the beer sludge, at least 1/3 of “your girls” are throwing up as a result of said cheap margarita mix, and you have no idea whether the person attempting to grind up on you is even remotely attractive, but it’s all good because Flo Rida’s “Where Them Girls At” just came on and that is your JAM.
While I clearly find Coney Island to be weirdly nostalgic (it reminds me of my alma mater, the University of Bad Choices), the days of smelling like cheap margarita mix (and enjoying Flo Rida songs) are now very far behind me. That’s why I transferred to the University of Watching Say Yes to the Dress Marathons With My Cat. I’m very happy there.