Every year it’s the same question: Anita, what are you going to be for Halloween?
And every year I do the same thing- I don’t wear a costume. I don’t try them on I don’t shop for them. The last time I wore a costume I was a teenager. I think I slapped on a pair of devil’s horns and called it good.
I know. I know. I love all things Halloween, I write scary stories I have a (replica) of a human skeleton that I kept in my livingroom.
So, when I thought about it isn’t dressing up for Halloween about freeing that inner monster inside of you? Freeing the Pirate or Princess or Sexy Blood Stained Nurse that you see when you look in the mirror but no one else can?
So you’re me…I worked in a funeral home, I write scary stories, I collect embalming tools. Whatever inner monster or dark yet somewhat cute creature that I see myself as … well it’s far from being suppressed.
Dressing up seems sort of pointless, but if I could I think I’d dress up as a Ballerina.
A full on Ballerina in a Tutu (pink) with a duck ( or is it a swan?) on my head. Oh and I’d wear hair in a little bun and walk around with my nose in the air like someone just rammed a meat hook under my chin and yanked the chain it was connected too straight up.
And why oh why would I do it?
Because the sight of me in that get- up would horrify people and quite possibly give them nightmares if not some sort of trauma requiring help from both pharmaceuticals and a psychiatrist or two or four possibly an entire staff at a sizeable mental hospital.
Halloween is in my blood and it runs as free and easy as a vulture circling a fat bloated corpse under a blazing hot noonday Sun .
All of the time.