S
Super Melsa
Guest
...candy-scoring boot camp? In my fifteen or so Halloweens, I've always remembered it as a magical parade of carefully chosen disguises worked on beginning in September so they're sure to be perfect come Halloween, ensuring that the kind candy-givers shan't recognize the little beggar at their doorstep until they'd been walking the endless streets, their little perfectly-picked shoes through the sole until it actually became a mission to get up the front steps to their reward for WORKING so hard.
That is, until my own brother snubbed his zombie getup for his usual Aeropostale (Wow, maybe he was going in costume... That's another issue, though.) hoodie, saying his friends were "Only maybe (as in, if they bother to dress up at all.) wearing masks, anyway," to go hit up a few houses for a pitiful quarter-pillowcase of spoils from a very generous (if you consider "fun-sized" generous) neighborhood, leaving me home (Not by choice...I'm under cruel and unusual punishment.) to give out candy to THE PASSENGERS OF SEVERAL SUVS in my ridiculously safe, very walkable suburban neighborhood, which just put me over the edge. I was only saved by the flawless Michael Myers, who would stop walking (WALKING, people) every few steps to stare eerily at his next destination (I thought something was wrong; that he'd passed out standing or something. He just stared through dark eye holes at me through my vestibule window for at least two minutes before going to beg silently on my porch, then walk in his perfect Myers gait to repeat at the next house, first stopping on the corner to take another creepy moment. He gives me faith in ghoulkind.)When, society? When did we ditch the costumes to bring true horror to Halloween? When did we decide that, on the one night where it's okay to talk to ax murderers, children had to be carted around so as not to risk harm to your little Grim Reaper (Because he's so convincing, with that elaborate -- black nylon cloak-ish thingy? ), or your Hulk's delicate feet (because you know, if his converse-covered feet go, all he has left are toy fists that are apparently diseased, as the color green appears no where else on the body.)
I'll wrap it up now. I would just like to say that, on a night of breaking curfew, dispersing all the contents of your bathroom closet around the streets, and panhandling without license, there are but two rules to follow.
1) Your only job is to dress up and beg. So do it. I (Or my parents, when I'm not under their house arrest.) take the time to sort through several bags of candy, ensuring that there is an ideal and plentiful selection for you ravenous little monsters. All I ask is that you actually LOOK like a monster, or the believable character of your choosing.
2)The streets are supposed to be flooded with children, not traffic. Unless there is a physical limitation (And no, your overprotective mother who is too dependent on the car to just hold your hand while you walk doesn't count) preventing you from walking forty feet to the next driveway, make sure your alter ego wears comfy shoes and can accommodate weather well and get strolling. No, the fact that you can't be a decent hooker without 1000-inch spike heels (I'm talking to you, disturbing sixth-graders.) isn't an excuse. Go buy some fairy wings and a flowier dress, and lighten up. Be a kid, dammit. Get some blisters. Everyone knows Smarties are the magic pill for that.
Anyone with me?
I know it's long. I'm disgusted and with nothing better to do.
Haha IMPORTANT MESSAGE TO THOSE OF YOU WHO DON'T FEEL LIKE READING ("Hell, now that I came off of my sugar high, I wouldn't feel like reading this.) : My idea's pretty much summed up in the last paragraph.
That is, until my own brother snubbed his zombie getup for his usual Aeropostale (Wow, maybe he was going in costume... That's another issue, though.) hoodie, saying his friends were "Only maybe (as in, if they bother to dress up at all.) wearing masks, anyway," to go hit up a few houses for a pitiful quarter-pillowcase of spoils from a very generous (if you consider "fun-sized" generous) neighborhood, leaving me home (Not by choice...I'm under cruel and unusual punishment.) to give out candy to THE PASSENGERS OF SEVERAL SUVS in my ridiculously safe, very walkable suburban neighborhood, which just put me over the edge. I was only saved by the flawless Michael Myers, who would stop walking (WALKING, people) every few steps to stare eerily at his next destination (I thought something was wrong; that he'd passed out standing or something. He just stared through dark eye holes at me through my vestibule window for at least two minutes before going to beg silently on my porch, then walk in his perfect Myers gait to repeat at the next house, first stopping on the corner to take another creepy moment. He gives me faith in ghoulkind.)When, society? When did we ditch the costumes to bring true horror to Halloween? When did we decide that, on the one night where it's okay to talk to ax murderers, children had to be carted around so as not to risk harm to your little Grim Reaper (Because he's so convincing, with that elaborate -- black nylon cloak-ish thingy? ), or your Hulk's delicate feet (because you know, if his converse-covered feet go, all he has left are toy fists that are apparently diseased, as the color green appears no where else on the body.)
I'll wrap it up now. I would just like to say that, on a night of breaking curfew, dispersing all the contents of your bathroom closet around the streets, and panhandling without license, there are but two rules to follow.
1) Your only job is to dress up and beg. So do it. I (Or my parents, when I'm not under their house arrest.) take the time to sort through several bags of candy, ensuring that there is an ideal and plentiful selection for you ravenous little monsters. All I ask is that you actually LOOK like a monster, or the believable character of your choosing.
2)The streets are supposed to be flooded with children, not traffic. Unless there is a physical limitation (And no, your overprotective mother who is too dependent on the car to just hold your hand while you walk doesn't count) preventing you from walking forty feet to the next driveway, make sure your alter ego wears comfy shoes and can accommodate weather well and get strolling. No, the fact that you can't be a decent hooker without 1000-inch spike heels (I'm talking to you, disturbing sixth-graders.) isn't an excuse. Go buy some fairy wings and a flowier dress, and lighten up. Be a kid, dammit. Get some blisters. Everyone knows Smarties are the magic pill for that.
Anyone with me?
I know it's long. I'm disgusted and with nothing better to do.
Haha IMPORTANT MESSAGE TO THOSE OF YOU WHO DON'T FEEL LIKE READING ("Hell, now that I came off of my sugar high, I wouldn't feel like reading this.) : My idea's pretty much summed up in the last paragraph.