Here is a normal conversation I had with a friend the other day.
“I can’t wait to get my costume in the mail. I hope it comes on time.”
“What are you going to be?”
“A banana. I can’t wait. I’ve always wanted to be a banana.”
It’s true. She’s always wanted to be a banana and I bet the arrival of her costume will just make her out of her mind giddy. She was so excited about this costume that it even prompted me to blurt out, “I could be an apple.” Instantly, upon hearing myself say those five words, I somewhat hated myself. An apple? A pineapple maybe. But an apple? Christ, I’m not ever going to be an apple. I got caught up in the moment and considered moonlighting as a Golden Delicious. And this is an example of why I hate Halloween. I do not understand what is fun about dressing up like a complete lunatic and jackass, primarily for the purposes of getting drunk with other excited assclowns you already know. There’s no candy involved anymore and I drink enough on my own. I don’t need to do it as another person, or fruit for that matter.
And I hate things meant to scare. I don’t get a thrill out of any of that. I get closer to death. My heart can’t take it. I don’t get a kick out of almost pissing my own pants. I don’t like haunted hayrides or the feeling like I can’t escape and no amount of hay is going to hide me because they, those evil haunted hayride workers, they can always find the ones, me, that are really scared. They can find them because your boyfriend or friends or siblings or whoever has something against you points you out, the minute the scary chainsaw man busts out of the fake, abandoned butcher shop. And then it’s you (me) being dragged off the hayride or out of the house, or off the trail, by the man trying to cut your leg off. That’s not funny. Another thing that’s not funny is that dead walk they do towards you. The one where it looks like their arms are too heavy and just dead weight at their sides and they stare at you with that crazy, blank, I’m going to gut you stare. That’s really not funny.
Other not funny things. The Scream mask. The scary out of his fucking mind kid with the blacked out eyes and mouth from The Grudge. People wearing paper bags over their heads while swinging on random swing sets ala The Strangers. (which I forgot the name of and when I googled it for the purpose of this blog, the GD bag heads popped up and to get them off my screen I googled “kittens” as fast as humanly possible. I have no idea how or why I did that, but that friends, that was quick thinking.) Continuing on with not funny at all aspects of Halloween. Knives of the butcher sort. Ice picks. Eyeballs in anything edible looking. Jumping out of dark corners. Touching me at any time while in anything said to be haunted. Screaming, moaning of the scared nature, screaming louder and wails of death. People in cages, swinging and grabbing for you. Chainsaws, the sound of a chainsaw, the fact that I insist I can smell it burning and therefore it must work. Lightning that flashes some scary ass face that you continue to see for the next ten minutes every time you blink. These things are all not funny to me.
For the record, I know October 31st isn’t All Comedians Eve. I’m not expecting it to be. And I know no one cares what I find funny and what I don’t. But for shit’s sake. I don’t want to be scared all day and night and I don’t want my weekend to revolve around it. Yes, 96% of whoever reads this will want to comment that I am no fun. I will delete your comments. I was fun in college with this little Halloween and here is why….perfect segway to my next point about Halloween.
Halloween is for prostitutes in training. You all know it. I only have one friend that I know that has put real and true effort in finding great costumes to wear every year and even she tricks it out a little…anyway, Halloween was created for hookers. And yes, friends, I was a card carrying member of this club, not so long ago. Let’s go over a few of my outfits. I was once the classic “Little Devil Slut”, which was me, dressed in all black–black shirt, black tube top made into skirt, black tights, black heels, red lipstick and horns. Mmm hmmm, lots of effort there. The next year I was “Playboy Slut”–very easy to understand. I was a Playboy Bunny with leather pants, a cowboy hat, and a very flattering bra with a low cut playboy shirt…and glitter. I think I remember glitter. Classy. This was followed by some sort of “Belly Dancer Slut” costume in which I chose to wear half a shirt made of some sort of metal, a lot of eyeliner and I can’t remember what else. Here is the proof, for all to see. I can’t remember what I was any other year, but it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t appropriate and it wasn’t scary, just trashy.
So as a very classy(and lazy), newly 30 year old woman, I found a sneaky way out of Halloween. I told Chris I am dyyyyying to go to Zugspitze, the highest mountain in Germany, for the weekend for a picture taking, gluhwein drinking getaway for my little fam. Which I am, so I don’t feel as though it’s lying. The sneaky part about it is that I know he doesn’t remember what weekend it is. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep track of dates or time over here, much to my advantage. And so I will not tell him and make sure I distract him from all and any conversations involving ghosts, haunted houses, blood and tricks.
Ahhhh, but wait. I am tricking him….so in theory, I am practicing the very fundamental parts of Halloween. So there. I win.