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Am I the Only White Person That Hates Halloween?
I don’t know where the treat part of this comes in.
I took my dog on a walk tonight. My neighborhood is suburban and quiet and mostly well-lit. As I approached one house, I saw a man standing by his trash can. Not a big deal. Tomorrow is trash day. This is normal. So I thought until I was looking square in the face of a life-size Freddie Krueger. Life. Size. Who was taking out the trash. Just standing there by the driveway propped up on a big ol’ black trash bin. It scared the piss out of me. No, really. I mean, not like a dam let loose, but enough for me to realize I am over this crap.
Y’all need to take your headstone, cobwebs, fake blood, and smiling gourds and get away from me. I do not mind American Horror Story on my television, but I do not want it across the street. We clear?
In case we’re not: I hate Halloween.
I have no beef with fall. Fall is amazing. I live in Phoenix, Arizona. Fall marks the end of boob-sweat season. It’s joyous. To herald in temperatures that don’t melt my face, I will happily place a pumpkin in front of my home.
Of course, it’s a plastic pumpkin because I realized last year I can’t be trusted with real yard gourds. I didn’t throw my real pumpkin out until January of this year, and by that time…
