A Boy for All Seasons

Night of the Living Harold

October.  A month plagued with wind, rain, and falling leaves.  A beautiful combination until it creates a mashed and congealed mess that sticks to the bottom of your Hunter boots.  Or worse, when it conceals a craftily abandoned pile of dog shit left behind by an owner who can't learn to stoop and scoop.  It's a month full of fear, mostly that you won't fit in to your desired slutty costume because you've consumed one too many pumpkin spice lattes.  Or at least that is how I imagine everyone else feels.

I love October. Watching marathons of old-school scary movies on AMC. Decorating your house with the perfect balance of creepy and cute Halloween adornments.  Scaring the bejesus out of your friends with a carefully placed motion sensor clown in the dingy basement bathroom.  We all float down here!  They all float down here!  Not to forget expertly hunting through racks of vintage and thrift clothing to craft the perfect outfit planned for almost a year. And best of all: Halloween parties!

Sifting through the inevitable deluge of Facebook and Paperless Post (for the classier host) e-vites requires diligence, perseverance, and balls. Set a limit, and live within it.  Taking on too many invites would mean risking being a blur.  Committing to just one venue means hanging your hopes on winning only one best costume prize.  No.  Rock the parties with your closest friends, then find the ultimate bar rendezvous for the end of the night.  Then dance your ass off well into All Saints Day.  That's November 1st to heathens.

So, how did all my best-laid plans fall to the wayside? The evening started out with promise. I set out with my two best friends, Slutty Grover and Slutty Big Bird, leading the charge. Soon followed keg stands and tequila shots, of which I refused to partake in. Then, sadly, somewhere between promises of cute boys and karaoke, the night went drastically off course. My woefully politically incorrect Sesame Street pals have now abandoned me in the middle of a frat-boy-wanna-be house party. Not even Kid and Play could revive my spirits.

I mournfully swirl the tepid, frothy, amber liquid around the Red Solo cup in my right hand. Disinterested and dejected, I plunk it down on the table in front of me. It is littered with similarly abandoned cups, fragments of chips, and scrunched up candy wrappers. Someone had a field day with the mini chocolate bars, I see. In the middle of the table sits one lonely looking cupcake. It is decorated with green icing, Oreo crumbs, and gummy candies and looks like a member of the undead is creeping out from its center. Pinterest win. But the soul-sucking wormhole of annoyance festering in my core has sucked away all the joy of my appraisal. So here I sit, relegated to the couch of loneliness.

I sit back against the cushions, examining the rest of my surroundings. Far in the corner of the room I notice a crew of costumed fools partaking in a rowdy game of flip cup. A dirty doctor and slutty nurse are making out in the kitchen, obviously giving each other anatomy lessons. I hope I don't become privy to a public breast exam. Ugh. In the distance beyond the kitchen I see a long line of people desperate to pee. Mostly women, of course, because popping a squat in a tight costume is infinitely harder than whipping it out to take a piss.  Each individual is swaying in a strange "pee-pee time" display, hoping to play off the urgency as a drunken dance move. The music blaring is an eclectic combination of standard Halloween ballads interspersed with pop hits. Unwittingly, I find my toes tapping to the catchy hook of a Taylor Swift song. How low I have sunk!

I scratch at the headdress atop my head that is shedding small feathery tendrils in to my eyes. My long, mousy brown locks hang around my face in loose and tousled waves. Large circular sunglasses with purple-tinted lenses sit perched upon my nose.  A hemp choker with a heart pendant circles my neck; the first layer in a series of long bead and shell strands that hang loosely down, tipping over my modest shelf towards my belly button.  A macramé vest drapes over my shoulders, accenting the colourful and flowy long-sleeved blouse I am wearing over a tank top and bralette combination. A perfectly chosen pair of burgundy velveteen bell-bottoms and a set of vintage gold sandals complete the outfit. Pearl, this is my homage to you.