Saturday, April 12, 2003

One of my cousins killed Santa Claus for me at an early age, but I remember strangling the Joy of Halloween with my own two hands. Don’t get me wrong, gentle reader–although I enjoy gorging myself with fruit candy as much as the next seven-year-old, Hallo-conoclasm descended on me like a sack of poisoned candy in the autumn of third grade.

My mum shuttled me to the drugstore the evening before and I purchased–don’t hold your breath, dear reader, because you’ll pass out–this and this. That’s about it. This would be my swan song, my fond middle finger to a holiday that put children in danger (ever heard of razor-flavored Mary Janes?) and that made the practice of popping Jolly Ranchers inefficient.

Filled with cynicism the next afternoon, I donned my “glasses” and my pitchfork and hit the streets. Mother after mother sighed with disappointment as I rang doorbell after doorbell.

Ding!

“C’mon,” Mother X said, “that’s not a real costume.”

“Nope!” I replied, extending my bag toward her.

Ding!

“Oh, that’s a nice–” started (and aborted) Mother Y.

“Thank you!” More candy.

That’s right, gentle reader. I got the same amount of candy with a fourth of the effort expended by my peers. Joy of Halloween? Where? What are you talking about?

I’m feeling the same way tonight, you see. Whatever fancy I had for academia left me sometime between Friday and Saturday. Jane Austen’s megathriller Sense and Sensibility sits on my desk, mocking me in some doubtless pansy-ass way. I’m this close to flouting the Joy of Academia and coming to class with bits of Sparknotes pasted on myself for the benefit of my peers. I’m this close to handing in this puppy as my real paper. Well, I’m off to find something blunt to bang my head on.