Happy freakin' Halloween

I hate Halloween. That's right, I'm Halloween miser. A Scrooge. Bah-humbug. My dislike for this ridiculous holiday isn't motivated by any religious fervor, or some contrarian/anti-establishment/I hate my parents young-adult angst. I simply can not stand anything that requires this amount of effort to participate in.

I have simple beliefs, one of which being that if you're going to do something, you are going to do it right. That means, if I'm going to dress up like a pumpkin, or a chinchilla, or one of the X-Men, I'm going to be the best damn pumpkin, chinhilla or Wolverine on the planet. Since I lack any iota of creativity in my over-sized body and am the self-proclaimed Captain Amotivational Syndrome, I can't possibly pull that off.

When I was little, I used to have some of the best made costumes in the world. With my mother at a sewing machine, my brother and I had costumes that rivaled any Broadway remake of Beauty & the Beast. One year she made me a pumpkin outfit, another year she made my brother and I matching Bunny suits. That's right, I said suit. None of this rabbit-ears-and-snap-on-tail crap, it was head to toe faux bunny. I just can't hack it when it comes to making things like that. So why bother? Besides, the day after Halloween the candy is 90% off anyway.

Plus, I've been there and done that. This is a holiday for kids 10 & under. You know, the kids that don't know about egging houses and shaving cream wars. They're the kids with the starry, far-off look in their eyes at the mention of a nights haul of candy. The kids that don't know humility yet and still get excited about putting on a plastic Superman mask and cape.

The only redeeming quality about Halloween is the opportunity to watch my Aunt and her Sixteen year old son drag the rest of her seventy kids house to house. Then watching the chaotic sugar-buzzed aftermath of the drove of them running around spastically, chocolate smeared all over their faces and crazed looks in their eyes. All with my aunt desperately trying to chorale them into bed. You try telling seven kids with two tons of candy to have "one piece" before bed. Riiiiight, good luck. That's like telling my roommates to only have "one beer" as they stare like children in front of a toy store window at our full mini-fridge.

Anyway. As for myself, I'll be kicked back on the sofa watching the Celtics game, ignoring the ringing doorbell looking for the candy I bought and plan on eating myself.