I Got A Rock

Anyone who knows me knows that I love Halloween. And for those of you who don’t know me, I LOVE HALLOWEEN! I love it so much in fact, that for a great many years I’ve been purporting to be an “actor” just so that I would consistently have excuses to dress up. And thank god I’m not really pursuing an acting career, as my wardrobe of costumes would be the only evidence of such! That is, as opposed to actual stuff on a resumé. Ha. Haha.

Anyway, back to Halloween. I didn’t literally get a rock, which is unfortunate because that would imply that I got as far as throwing a sheet over myself and actually leaving the house. I didn’t leave the house. And that’s unfortunate because the costume I was working on was way better than Guy Wearing Sheet. And the thing about that is, I was struggling this year to come up with the perfect costume, which for me, is familiar enough that everyone will recognize it, but obscure enough that no one else will have thought of it. I was flirting with the idea of being Joe The Plumber, but dressing as Super Mario with a “J” on my hat instead of an “M.” The “J” being for “Joe,” you see... I know, I wasn’t crazy about that one either. But then, while shopping at a Spirit Halloween Store, I was haunted by the ghost of inspiration. With less than a week to go, I decided to put together a costume that I’d been wanting to do for a while. (Yes, I know I’ve been withholding the specifics of said costume, but with a whole year to go, I can’t be expected to tell you now. Granted, it’s questionable whether I will hold up my end of this blog until next Halloween given that I already haven’t posted in over a month, but sorry folks, that’s how I roll.)

Cut to Halloween night. I had successfully assembled all of the necessary accessories, and was well over the hump of completion. I was putting the finishing touches on my ambiguously awesome costume when disaster struck. As I was hot-glueing a patch of faux fur to the crotch of my pantyhose, my left index finger made contact with the glue. No harm done there, but I flinched and attempted to toss away the fur patch, like you do when your finger touches the hot glue on the back of it, and somehow the scalding swatch somersaulted onto the back of my hand, landing glue-side down across my fingertips. Again I flinched, like you do, and attempted to remove the hot fuzz from my left hand with my right. The following three seconds played out like a torturous gag as each time I attempted to flick it off, it would stick to the digits with which I was attempting to flick it. I hastily bound to my feet, wasting no time in spewing out shits, fucks, and every combination thereof like Exorcist puke. In the midst of my pained rampage of punching and kicking piles of clothes, bags of stuff, etcetera, I reactively tore a chunk of glue off of my middle finger which took with it a generous portion of skin. That was it. I collapsed on my couch, and overcome with painic (pain + panic), proceeded to blackout. It couldn’t have been for long though, as my unfortunate friend, Ged, who had to bear witness to this spectacle, didn’t even notice. I came to, feeling “weird,” and laid down on my bedroom floor with my hands wrapped around a bag of frozen vegetables, where I ached myself to sleep. By the by, I know that frozen peas are the recommended remedy, but mixed veggies were all I had on hand. Pun very much intended.

I awoke later that night feeling the way Linus must have felt after being stiffed by The Great Pumpkin. Halloween was over and I missed it. But considering that Linus didn’t burn the shit out of his hand, I would’ve gladly taken his experience over my own. In fact, I would’ve taken the experience of any of those Peanuts over my own. Even kissing a dog. But I’ll be back next year...with a fur-y. No pun intended.

- Mitchell