I’m starting to panic right now.
While you’ve all been gushing about how excited you are to show off that super original Halloween costume at that pile of parties you’re inevitably going to, I have no fucking clue what to dress up as.
How high-and-mighty you all are, planning to go as that “Gangnam Style” guy or binders-full-of-women, or whatever damn pop culture reference you’re stepping into this Wednesday.
The Gods of Hallow-wit have been cruel to me, angered because I’ve yet to sacrifice one of my round orange friends to be gutted and punctured. I’m Linus, sitting in the pumpkin patch, waiting for a miracle.
Full disclosure: I’m never one to put a lot of effort into my costumes. Last year, I used a Frank Zappa getup as an excuse not to shave for a week and just tossed on a hemp shirt and rolled with it. I think I was Aladdin the year before. Using the same shirt.
But this year, I want my getup to speak for itself, because I get a little tired of explaining my half-assed outfits after a few glasses of whisky.
There’s still time, and I hope to the Great Pumpkin that some divine inspiration comes fast, or else I’ll be the one twitching in the corner with a sheet over my head.
“Great costume!” they’ll say. “You’re rock bottom, right?”
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