Call me... "Sniffer of Hands"

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I pity my poor hands. My brain is always sending them on suicide missions to the hairiest, sweatiest, most fragrant crevasses of my body, so I can take a constant inventory of my current level of body odor. I wish I lived, worked, slept in a massive hot shower all the time, with sudsy body washes, so I could be permanently squeaky clean. My hands would appreciate it, not to mention my nose.