What kind of teeth-rotting sugar do kids even like anymore? Surely not licorice, though I was never picky. If a sign said ‘take two’, I was the one who’d only take one. The adult on my left shoulder says it doesn’t matter what they want, it’s free candy. The narcissist on my right says we refuse to be the house on the block that gives out shitty candy. 

I settle for a mix of brand name chocolates and two bottles of wine. I tell myself I’m not answering the door. I try not to think of all the children in sweat shops that probably assisted in this holiday – any holiday, really. The plastic decorations that litter landfills, birds choking on gummy eyes and possums using the foam of cleverly punned RIP signs to build a nest. Wasted velvet and velcro from cheap costumes strangling a noose around human decency and thought

I’m putting out a bucket on a stand and if some bastard spawn wants to take the entire loads worth then so be it. Eventually they’ll have to learn the early bird gets the worm, even if it’s a crow. They’ll need to be prepared for the corporate throat slitting bloodbath, anyways, once time turns the corner and age dawns the cloak of the reaper. 

It’s a dogs world but dogs would’ve run it better. 

I wonder how many children will be sporting costumes their mothers forced them into. A cute, fluffy chicken when all he wanted to be was a zombie scientist. Why can’t we just let people be what they fucking want to be?

I remember a time when we used to throw parties. One year, a kids mom dressed him up as an inflatable shark. He tried to run up the hill, deflating fins flapping in the air as she chased him with the machine. He fell and started crying. I was dressed as a corpse bride. 

One year my brother dressed up as Boba Fett. They spent way too much money on the costume but he looked cute enough in it. The night before Halloween he accidentally dropped silly putty on the crotch and the next morning it dried to resemble cum stains. He was six or seven and they were on their way to Disney. My mother was mortified

They asked me one year why I chose my costume and I told them it didn’t matter. Being anything and anywhere else besides Earth for a night was all the escape my clever imagination needed. I said that every year afterwards, too. 

Now I don’t bother dressing up because I do so every single day. Halloween is the only time that is socially acceptable for me to let the skeleton shed its clever layers of meat and lounge on the couch with bottomless eyes and fangs dripping in crimson cynicism. 

I place one, the deepest of maroon merlot, upon the highest shelf in my kitchen. Because my skin tastes like pink moscato tonight and my stomach is lurching for solid food and it is not time to crumble to bone yet. 

I will save that one for a day I need a costume, or perhaps a piece of candy. 

– B. 

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