Creepers.

There is a small and wonderfully mediocre pub down the road from my house whose only defining characteristics are the devoted apathy of the staff, and the fact that it is generally busiest between 2pm and 4pm. Since it is the only bar within walking distance from my house, and nobody has ever complained when I take my unfinished beer home with me, I am a loyal patron. When I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like preparing a meal, i’ll make the short walk down the road and mold myself onto the stool at the corner of the bar. It’s my favorite. The staff may be apathetic, but they’re not stupid. By now they know that if I show up before the sun goes down, and I’m alone, I’m there because I need some comfort food, and they’re usually gracious enough to have a nice filling Guiness poured for me before I’m even done fidgeting onto my barstool.

A few nights ago, I was at the bar for my customary liquid snack, and as I nursed my second Guiness draft, drawing mystic designs in the foam at the top of the glass with my special beer drinking straw, I couldn’t help but overhear bits of the conversation between the two girls sitting beside me. It consisted mostly of mindless chatter about periods and back fat, and whatever else girls always talk about, but one part of their drivel did stand out enough for me to pay closer attention.

What happened was, a young man, similar in age to the girls, left his group of friends and came up to the bar to order another drink. As he waited for his adult beverage he plucked up enough courage to smile at the girls, and told the closest one, “Hi. I like your scarf.”

The she-witches only response was to glare at him like he had just admitted to killing and eating the Lindbergh baby, which went on until he received his drink and returned to his group of friends. When he departed, Girl 2 stage whispered to Girl 1,

“Like, Oh my glob, did you even know that guy?”

And Girl 1 replied, “No! Can you believe it? What a creeper!”

And then they laughed evilly and buried their snouts in their fruity cocktails.

Really. He is a creeper? Why? He seemed relatively handsome, in that both his eyes pointed in the same direction and he had the traditional number of arms and legs, on top of which he not only had friends, but those friends appeared normal as well. What made him achieve creeper status? What he had said wasn’t even aggressively flirtacious or sexual.

From what I saw, a young man said a pleasant thing to a young woman, and he was immediately  punished for it. I should have shaken an admonishing finger at those girls and said “Hey! That poor boy just said something nice to you, the least you could have done was graciously accept his compliment, you fat cow. Judging from your snaggly teeth and your girlfriend’s lustrous mustache, i’m guessing compliments don’t come your way often, so maybe you don’t know the accepted method for receiving them. Generally you’re supposed to smile and nod and feel better about yourself.” Or something along those lines.

I should have said that. But I didn’t. I didn’t say anything. If scarf-boy was considered a creeper, what would they call the guy sitting alone drinking his guiness out of a twisty straw?

I don’t feel like a creeper. And yet…according to any female I’ve ever spoken to, every single guy in the world IS a creeper. Your dad? He’s a creeper. Santa Claus? Creeper. The sweet baby Jesus? You better believe he’s a creeper. Girls certainly are not prejudiced when it comes to applying the creeper label, you have to give them that. Not just ugly guys are creepers. Handsome guys are too. Not just shy, or nervous guys are creepers. Evidently every single guy that is ever nice to any girl ever is a creeper. Whenever a guy thinks a girl is pretty or cool, his feelings are wrong and evil, and he should be ashamed. As soon as he tries to flirt even a little, that means that he is an abominable deviant, and must be dragged out into the woods and shot, Old Yeller style.

The worst part is, this is absolutely a one way road. When a girl makes the effort to speak to me, even if she is not someone I may be interested in, i’m flattered. Do you know why? Because it’s a human being…being nice to me. It makes me feel nice. And I want to be nice back, but I can’t, because then i’d be a creeper.

It’s just not fair. Do you know why? Because creepers actually exist. There ARE true creepers. I know. I’ve seen them. As a guy, who isn’t blinded by a woman’s flawed and inaccurrate creeptrovision, I can tell the difference. The sweaty guy in the cheese-stained wife beater asking you if the chloroform on his rag smells weird, is a creeper. The nervous kid asking you your name at the bar…not a creeper. Just shy. The hairy guy who punched you in the teat and locked you up in the trunk of his Cadillac, that’s your uncle Mort. And also, he’s a creeper. The male classmate holding the door open for you on your way in to your German Film lecture, not a creeper. Just a gentleman. Are you seeing the difference?

Additionally ladies, have you ever thought that maybe, maaaaaybe, you’re asking for it? I’m not saying that by dressing up like a slut-whore, with your titties hanging out and your stink hole giving everybody the stink eye out of the bottom of your miniskirt, that you’re actually inviting men to come up and talk to you. I understand that you’ve just spent hours on your hair and makeup, and worn your sluttiest dress with your 17″ stripper heels only because you secretly hate your girlfriends, and you want to show them up by looking more fabulous than them, the judgemental skanks. I understand your motivation, but not all men do. You’ll have to forgive them, the poor fools. They think you’re dressed up like a slut because…you are a slut. They actually believe that you’re all skanked out because you want some male attention. It’s naive, I know, but this is what most guys actually think.

Even worse is when you throw out totally mixed signals. If, last thirsty-thursday, you went out to the bar, and right at that crucial moment when the tequila shots were interacting with your natural insecurities to make you particularly suggestible, Ralph from economics asked you for a dance, and you ended up giving him a blowjob in the men’s bathroom, you’re going to have to deal with the fact that the next time he sees you out he is going to assume that you don’t hate him. Please remember, he is a simple creature. He believes that stall-job he received was because you liked the popped-collar on his polo and that your previous encounter was actually about him, not your repressed daddy issues. You have every right to set him straight of course, but please, be gentle. He’s not trying to be a creeper. He’s just a little confused. If you politely explain that you are not interested, he will leave you alone.

Basically girls, you have to stop calling guys something they’re not. It’s not fair to stereotype or shoehorn vastly different people into one all-inclusive and hurtful category.

You bitches.

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Sweatpants Farts and other Thanksgiving Traditions

The monday after Thanksgiving is always hard. Holiday weekends last just long enough for you to remember that you once had hopes and dreams, but not nearly long enough to heal the empty abyss created when you sold your soul for  dental coverage and stock options. Added to this considerable mental anguish is the unavoidable torment of having every single coworker, customer, and above-average office plant ask you “how was your Thanksgiving!?!?!?!?!”

Bit of advice: They don’t  really care about your Thanksgiving. Not one bit. If your answer isn’t monosyllabic, and doesn’t rhyme with “wood”, they will resent you for life, which luckily won’t be all that long, because they’ll also probably kill you to death with their bare fists.

Everybody in the relevant part of the world celebrates Thanksgiving exactly the same way. They don’t need to hear your version of “I went to my relative’s house, ate too much, and took a nap under the table while loud pets and louder children ran around fighting for table scraps.”

Do you really think your weekend was extra special because Grandpa Harold fell asleep watching football and didn’t even know he had some of that canned cranberry sauce stuck in his beard? I’ll give you a hint. It was not. Shut your pumpkin pie hole you narcissist, and show some class. Like me.

I wouldn’t waste anybody’s time with asinine stories about my holiday weekend. I’m not that much of a grundle scab.

So my holiday weekend was pretty cool. I spent Thanksgiving day at my cousin’s house, where a lovely meal was prepared, and we all sat around for a few hours being bored by each other’s company. I’m pretty sure Grandma turned her hearing aids off after being asked her 6th or 7th puzzle related question. My pre-holiday-dinner weight was a modest 176 lbs. Post turkey meal weigh-in, a respectable 179.8 lbs. And then post-Thanksgiving dinner poop weigh-in was 173.4 lbs. It was an ordeal. I’m fairly certain the extra pounds lost were on account of one of my kidneys dropping out of my stink-chute. Maybe a liver? Who knows. All that is certain is over the past couple of days, i’ve been afflicted with an annoying case of the bubble gutts, and their unwelcome cousin, the drizzling shits.

Friday was a rebuilding day, involving an abundance of sweatpants, cold pie, and regret, and absolutely not involving retail shopping. Then we went out and drank beers with friends, and ate more pie. Saturday, my friends and I discovered that we are older and more pitiful than we had ever suspected through the course of a friendly football game, which ended up leaving us more thoroughly crippled than an unnamed American president who served between 1933 and 1945. Sunday, we ate more pie.

Lessons learned over the weekend:

1. The technical skills learned during ten years of playing football competitively never leave you. Your body’s ability to apply those skills, does.

2. Stuffing should never have fruits and berries in it. It is an abomination. Cranberries are useful only in vodka cocktails, and for lubricating a lady’s period machine.

3. There IS a such thing as too much pie.

That’s all i’ve got on that subject, so…how was your Thanksgiving weekend?

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A poem.

The Stygian Glare

A message of endings, written in retinal scar ink

The painlove is Crystallized

obscurity, obtuse acuity.

Digging its hole through time, it burns

The Antioch flame

Darkness rises in her cage of souls

In the distance, a dove dove

Columbidae weaves her wreath of sorrows

Pregnant upon the brow of the world

Creation! The doe ignores the incipient step of the birth-slick fawn

Mankind is darkest before the dawn.

Quote the craven. Minotaur

Eight minutes for light to pass from Sun to son

You have 8 minutes

Tits.

Twinkle. Twinkle. Silence.

Barnabe Googe

The Zodyake of Life (1560)

How does this obscure scrap of literature make you feel? Did it move you? Change you? What was the poet trying to say here? What is the meaning behind the meaning?

I’ll tell you a secret. This poem was not actually written by pastoral english poet Barnabe Googe. It was written by me. Surprising, I know. I don’t usually “write” “poetry”. Here’s why. Poetry….is dumb. It’s complete bullshit. I wrote this crappy ass poem in approximately 6.2 seconds, and then I asked Mistress to read it and tell me her thoughts. I failed to mention that I was the author.

Poor girl. She had no idea I was setting her up. Her critique: “I like it. It’s very smart. It evokes…death? I don’t know, it feels very dark, but I like it.”

Oh how I laughed. “You stupid woman,” I crowed, victorious, “that’s not what it means at all! Now get your sweet clam into the kitchen and make me a sandwich.”

I’m fully qualified to interpret the poem. I know exactly what it means. I wrote it after all. The truth is, it means NOTHING. It’s total crap. We can break it down line by line if you want. And begin.

The Stygian Glare– Even the name is meaningless grundle-dust. I assumed the average reader wouldn’t know what stygian means (it means very dark), and that if they did know what it means they would think “oh, I see what you did there. A dark glare ehh. Very sneaky. Very clever.” No. No, it is not clever. It’s nonsense.

A message of endings, written in retinal scar ink

The painlove is Crystallized

obscurity, obtuse acuity. – My my my, how evocative. What imagery. Retinal scar ink? The Stygian glare burnt so brightly it did organic damage? Intense. And painlove? Of course! Pain and Love are intrinsically tied. How perceptive. Crystallized obscurity? Obtuse acuity? Delightfully oxymoronic!

Sigh…more like just moronic. None of these words mean anything. They are a random, nonsensical mess.

Digging its hole through time, it burns

The Antioch flame– More nonsense. Just something for people to wonder about.

Darkness rises in her cage of souls– Ooh, im shivering inside my glass case of emotion!

In the distance, a dove dove– Duv dove. I actually like that. Because it’s so dumb.

Columbidae weaves her wreath of sorrows– Who is Columbidae? Actually, just the scientific name for doves. Not a person at all.

Pregnant upon the brow of the world

Creation! The doe ignores the incipient step of the birth-slick fawn– Hyphenating things makes them more dramatic. It’s science.

Mankind is darkest before the dawn.– It wouldn’t be good poetry without bastardizing at least one mindless idiom.

Quote the craven. Minotaur– Thanks Eddy Allen Poe

Eight minutes for light to pass from Sun to son

You have 8 minutes– For what? Until what? huh?

Tits.– I was thinking about tits here.

Twinkle. Twinkle. Silence.– Still thinking about tits.

The thing about poems is, they’re crap. Helen Keller grunting at a tree tranfers more useful information than most poetry. Oh, but the form and the rhythm, the iambic pentamatrices! Blah blah blah blah. The first and only rule of poetry should be RHYME. If it don’t rhyme, it ain’t worth my time. I don’t want to read a random ass collection of poorly punctuated words. I want some Doctor-mother-fucking-Seuss. At least he admitted that 3/4 of the crap he wrote made no sense whatsoever. But Maximus, poetry is all about conveying emotion! Here’s some emotion for you. “I’m angry.” “I’m sad.” “I’m horny.” “I’m sleepy.” Bam. Emotion conveyed. If poets have such important things to say, why don’t they just say them? Go ahead, lay out your deep and meaningful philosophies using clear, concise, grammatically coherent language. I don’t want to have to “interpret” what you’re trying to say. Don’t try to be artsy. Don’t try to be clever. There’s no need to be baroque. Just say what you mean. Express yourself using good sentence structure. Oh, you can’t? Because you have nothing worthwhile to say? I see. How disappointing. And readers, come on. If Jackson Pollock duct-taped his shit logs all over a piece of canvass, and signed it with his smeary poop hands, people would call it abstract expressionism, and buy it for one million billion dollars. Does that make it art? No, it makes it a steaming pile of doo that some idiot paid a million billion dollars for.

The same goes for poetry.

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Camping in the Cold

This time, the fault is not mine. I wanted to write. I had things to say. I tried, I really tried, but we have no power. Depending upon what part of the country/world/omniverse you reside in, you’re probably experiencing the same problem, in which case you probably have bigger issues on your mind than my lack of blog post updatery. For the lucky uninformed, a large part of the northeastern United States has been without power for days, following an unseasonable and truly bizarre snowstorm, which knocked down every single tree between here and the rocky mountains. It would appear that “autumn” has fallen out of style, and will no longer be observed in the Eastern Time zone. In this brave new world, summer transitions immediately into winter and beach-goers perish from frostbite by the hundred. What can I say? We’re trend-setters.

As I have been incommunicado for a semi-extended period of time, and I’m not certain when I will again have the opportunity, since my house still has no power, I have multiple topics I wish to discuss.

Topic 1: We threw a Halloween Party last Saturday. Mother Nature wrecked it. Not that we didn’t have fun, in an “only twelve people made it here before the roads were closed, and we’re probably experiencing the end of the world; so we might as well drink more beer,” kind of way, and then later in an “I know it’s really late, it’s still snowing, and we’re pretty drunk, but we should definitely move these fallen trees off the driveway using unreliable chainsaws and brute strength,” kind of way. It’s just that we were expecting to have fun in a “damn, there are a million hot hotties at this party, let us comport ourselves with wild abandon,” kind of way. Oh well, you win some, you lose some I guess.

Topic 2: I’m older than the last time we spoke. Significantly older. If lying on the floor in my living room, freezing to death, staring off into the darkness, and contemplating my approaching mortality can be considered “celebrating”, then I celebrated the shit out of my 26th birthday on Wednesday. Things, in my ancient wisdom, I have since realized, are as follows:

– I am now in my “late” twenties. Go fuck yourself.

– My knees, hips, and ankles really DO hurt when it is cold or rainy.

– I think my hair might be thinning and/or turning grey, except on my back. It’s doing just fine on my back.

– Drinking at breakfast is no longer funny. It’s necessary.

– Ten years ago I couldn’t avoid walking around with unwanted raging mega-hard boners. Now I can barely summon a usable semi without my vision going a little blurry.

– I get the bubble guts if I eat any food containing extravagant characteristics like “taste” or “flavor”. I also get the bubble guts if I eat bland food. What I’m trying to say is I always have the bubble guts.

– I used to dream about the future. I now dream about the past.

– I’m old. Haggard. Beat. Worn out. I have reached an advanced state of decrepitudination.

– I have achieved very little.

Topic 3: What the hell is Occupy Wall Street? I have ignored whatever it is that is going on in NYC until now, because when you ignore something whiny and annoying, it usually goes away and leaves you alone, but god damn it they’re still there doing whatever it is they’re doing. All I know is that they don’t seem to like corporate greed, which doesn’t sound very American if you ask me, and they make me feel ashamed of my generation. I shall explain.

I support their constitutional rights to freedom of speech, but their disorganized, unfocused, shitty efforts are a complete waste of time. The Civil Rights movement, Women’s Suffrage, Gandhi’s independence movement, all of these achieved incredible and incredibly necessary advances. Why? They were focused. They knew what they needed, and they were able to effectively communicate their needs. They were organized. They had powerful, visible, unifying leadership. They were relevant. They involved respected, respectful, integrated members of society.

The Occupy(insert-unlucky-urban-area-here) has none of these things. No, that’s not a fair assessment. They have all these things. They just don’t have enough of them. For every educated, coherent, righteous person with a real grievance, there are three idiots from my generation. The entitlement generation.

“Escuse me Chad from Seattle, why are you protesting in New York?”

“Hey man, you know, the pot is pretty good here, and I’ve totally been playing some sweet ultimate in the park with my new friends, but really it’s because the government just needs to step up and say enough is enough, and corporations are being all corporationy, and you know we’re the 99 percent, you know? Because like, Obama was supposed to mean change, but then, how come the sun still rises in the East? I mean like I can barely live off my unemployment and food stamps, you know?”

Well Chad, since you look like a hobo, you’re clearly stoned, nothing you just said makes any sense, and you smell like bigfoot’s dick, I certainly don’t understand why nobody seems to be taking you seriously. I mean, you’re the 99 percent, right? Actually, I think I might have some advice that could help you out. First, stop calling yourself the 99 percent. I’m not a greedy corporation, but I still don’t want to be associated with you. Second, quit your bitching. If you don’t like your situation, change it. Get a job. Work hard. Learn something. Become valuable. Stop demanding handouts. You want something? Earn it. Why should the government take care of you? You’re not crippled or handicapped. You’re a grown ass adult, take care of yourself. You can’t find a job? Fuck you, there are jobs available. You just don’t like that they’re not your dream jobs. We get it, you’re overqualified. So what? Where in the constitution does it say “and ye shall be granted exactly the job you want, just because you want it, with no regard to the laws of supply and demand, or underlying economic conditions”?

“But, I have a job and I still can’t pay my bills.” So learn how to balance a fucking check book you goob. Stop living beyond your means. Move into a shittier apartment. Sell your Xbox or your Fixie bicycle. Pack a bag lunch and stop drinking Coffee. Cancel your Netflix. You know, streamline. Be smarter.

I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. You’re right, the government is fucked, and corporate greed is appalling, and the system is broken. It’s bad. Whining about it like spoiled children isn’t going to change anything. You know what might?

Doing something about it.

Our founding fucking fathers knew a thing or two about taking action. They achieved a thing or three they could be proud of. Correct me if i’m wrong, but I don’t recall reading in the history books that this country was formed because George Washington led a drum circle at Valley Forge.

Let that sit on your noodle for a bit.

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Halloween is the best holiday EVER…and I hate it.

As far as holidays go, Halloween is near perfect. Twelve out of a dozen scientists agree, and they have Venn Diagrammical proof. Allow me to  briefly summarize their findings.

1: Halloween, like Thanksgiving, celebrates gluttony. Unlike Thanksgiving however, you can spend time with your friends, who, through a rigorous screening process, you have chosen to include only people you actually enjoy being around. Conversely, you don’t have to spend time with your family, who everyone agrees is an odious cluster of freaks and weirdos, and you’re lucky to be as normal as you are (you’re not normal). Secondly, Halloween gluttony involves candy, you know, something you actually want to eat, whereas at Thanksgiving time you are reduced to playing gastric-roulette with aunt Mirna’s “famous stuffing surprise”. Fuck surprises. I’d rather risk finding razor-blades and AIDS needles in my pre-packaged candy treats than seeing another raisin or cranberry in my fucking stuffing.

2: Halloween is not even a pretend Christian holiday. Sure Christmas is fun, since you get presents, but it has certain integral flaws, like that you’re supposed to give other people presents back, and also feel guilty if you don’t pray for peace on earth and instead just pray for more presents. What about the more debauched holiday traditions? Did you know that Mardis Gras is a Catholic celebration? Yeah, i’m sure the drunken co-ed showing her tits for beads and bourbon shots knew that too. Halloween, on the other hand, has embraced its original roman/pagan roots wholeheartedly, and if there is one thing we know about the Romans and Pagans, it’s that those dudes could party.

3: Halloween is fun for all ages. New-years is a fun, non-christian holiday event that usually involves friends and heavy drinking, but it really brings nothing to the table where kids are concerned. So they get to stay up a little late and watch a blinking electric ball on television. Big whoop. They would rather have stayed home and beat off watching Sponge-Bob marathons, at least then they wouldn’t have had to sit on creepy uncle Fester’s lap, he pinches too hard and always smells like what they will someday realize is crystal meth.

Halloween, on the other hand, is more fun than swearing at a slumber party, starting at about oh, age 3 and ending never. First, you prepare yourself for the big night by butchering innocent pumpkins, and displaying their grisly remains upon your front stoop, proclaiming your ultimate bad-assery to the entire neighborhood. Then, you get to dress up like whatever you want to be (this is important, we’ll come back to it), and THEN you get to go out in public in your hilarious costume, which is the ultimate cloak of anonymity. You are officially safe in the knowledge that for once you are unencumbered by any distinguishing features, and can behave in exactly the way you, as a child, have always wanted to, with no threat of reprisal or consequence, so what do you immediately do? You gather up a bunch of similarly disguised hooligans and you run rapant through your town, looting and pillaging, assaulting, extorting, and burgling neighbors and strangers alike. For most kids, who end their night with an orange plastic pumpkin or a pillowcase full-to-bursting with candy-treats, this is heaven. OR, if you were like my sister and I, your mother called ahead and told the neighbors what you were wearing, so they’d be sure to give you the healthy “treats”, so you come home with a sack full of apples and peanut-butter crackers, now confident in the knowledge that there indeed is no god, and that every person in the entire world will someday betray you, so at least the night retained value as a learning experience for you, if nothing else.

Now, what about when you are no longer a child? What joys beyond the petty larceny of sugar snacks could implied anonymity possibly provide for an adult? I can think of one big one.

Chicks dress slutty. Not just slutty chicks, who I submit are America’s unsung heroines, but all chicks. Sure, for some of them it is probably not a great idea, since they’ve missed a few 8-minut ab workouts and kind of look like over-cooked sausages splitting their casings, but the vast majority are crazysexyglorious. This is especially the case for women who tend to be more reserved in their dress and demeanor on a daily basis, as their transformation is more drastic, and therefore, more of a treat to behold. Your friend Georgine, the 2nd grade teacher, is usually kind of a square, but for this one night she’s not Georgine the 2nd grade teacher, she’s a sexy nurse/police officer/bumble bee/rodent/princess, and that sexy nurse/police officer/bumble bee/rodent/princess is a real party animal, AND is totally willing to make out with you. Well, not YOU. Nobody would make out with you. Luckily tonight you’re not you though, you’re a super hero/villain/ironic outfit wearing guy, and that super hero/villain/ironic outfit wearing guy definitely has a chance with Halloween-Georgine. AND if you get her home from the party, bar, or train station where you found her, and pop in a horror movie, you have a good chance of making that sloppy make-out session turn into a really sloppy visit to pound town. (Because nothing is a better turn on than cuddling while watching B-grade slasher flicks…I guess?) Yes, maybe your morning will be full of regretful crying and awkward silences, but those are problems to be faced by the real you, not whatever persona you have adopted for the evening.

It’s a magical time. Candy, costumes, and unleashed inhibitions. Like I said, Halloween is the best holiday ever.

So how can I possibly hate it? Very personal reasons, I assure you.

1. All the women friends who normally cook for me are usually dieting for about a month or so preceding the holiday, to better fit into their slut-suits, and i’m collateral damage. Instead of getting my normal menu of steaks soaked in bacon i’m left choking down whatever slop their eating, which appears to be slightly moistened dust sprinkled on old-chinese newspapers, with two fingers down the throat for dessert. Yum.

2. I have a twin sister, and we tend to roll with the same crowd. I usually enjoy partying with her. Halloween is the exception. Thinking that she is there in the crowded party somewhere, judging me, as I bask in the sea of exposed cleavage and upper thigh that is a proper Halloween get-together, is a real buzz-kill. Is this mildly uncomfortable guilt something Christians feel all the time? It sucks. Also, if she choses to wear a slutty costume herself, that raises a whole different tier of discomfort and judgement. I know, “just don’t mix your party life with your family life, Max.” It’s a cardinal rule. Problem. She’s a twin. We’re the same age. We have the same friends.  It wasn’t a big deal in college, but now that we’re young professionals and we realize that we’re pretty unlikable and have about 6 friends left between the both of us, yeah, it’s hard to find a good party that she won’t be at. Especially because I happen to be the one that throws “THE” Halloween party every year.

What am I going to do, not invite my sister? That would be a dick move. I’m not that much of a douche. My Halloween character on the other hand….

I love Halloween.

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