Unpopular Opinion: No, I Am Not Going To Your Halloween Party

Halloween is here, and with it comes every Halloween party invite I will ignore until it’s the day of said event and I claim I didn’t see it. Because look: it’s not Halloween, it’s me. I’m not fun. And I don’t want to go to your Halloween party.

Here’s the thing about Halloween parties: to start, at some point, regardless of how much fun you’re having, you will inevitably look around and realize that you are an adult human standing around a lot of other adult humans, dressed up like a fictional or non-fictional person. And to me, that has the same effect as being in a 3D movie and realizing all of you are wearing stupid glasses looking at a screen, and it’s absolutely mortifying and I would rather pass away.

But then it gets worse. For an entire night, you feign interest in what everyone else is dressed up as. “What are YOU?” is the thing you start to say with a smiled plastered on your face in a way typically reserved for parents trying to figure out their children’s drawings. Then they tell you and it’s either like “OH YEAH!” or “Oh cool!” or “I’ve never seen that, but that’s great!” and regardless of what you say, it’s still too late: you are absolutely still in a costume pretending to have fun.

Because we know how much I hate forced fun. I hate anything that necessitates me having A Total Blast without the option of chilling out for a second or Not Having Fun At All, and I hate anything that involves me “joining in” and/or “participating” in any capacity. (See also: if you make me clap my hands at a concert, I will call the police — and same if you want a suggestion at your improv show.) Let me go to your house, eat your snacks, talk some shit, and leave in under two hours, maximum. Do not force me to explain that my costume is the product of things I found laying around the house and now here I am. Do not force me to praise you for your super-niche Breathless reference. Do not make me remember that Halloween is only fun if we’re hanging out in a cemetery talking ghosts or watching horror films and eating entire boxes of candy in one sitting while quoting The Shining and that I’m not doing that, because I’m here, at your home, surrounded by fellow adults dressed like that dude from that show everybody likes this year. Do not make me confront the fact that despite this being a Halloween party there is no Halloween candy anywhere and no movies are on and it’s just a regular party minus the fact that I’m trying to make it seem like this hat I’m wearing isn’t a disgrace to the holiday or to your home. Don’t make me do this.

Anne’s crush: Christopher Walken in Sleepy Hollow.

So I’ll make it easier for all of us (and for anyone else who doesn’t like Halloween): I can’t make your Halloween party. I’m sorry, but you don’t want me there and I don’t want to be there, and if we’re going to do anything Halloween-centric, it better be the conjuring of a spirit because that’s the shit I signed up for when Halloween at the bar started being awful. And I will go to your party only if you can guarantee me at least one (1) rogue spirit and the residual energy of something that happened 100 years ago on the property. I will go if we watch Sleepy Hollow and you ignore me saying that even in this movie, I have a weird crush on Christopher Walken and I can’t explain it. I will go if we can talk about ghosts and axe murderers from 1894 and if it’s very cold and very rainy and anybody who shows up in a costume is questioned sincerely about why.

Because that is the only forced fun I am capable of at this point. I am tired, I am aging, I just want to be left alone to eat Fun Size snacks and make fun of Scream while saying I LOVE THIS MOVIE to no one in particular. I don’t want to dress up like Arnold from Arnold or spend any money whatsoever on any costume or pretend I care about yours. I don’t. I don’t even a little bit. Which is why I’m not going to your Halloween party.

But you sure as shit better plan something for Christmas, because that’s my time to shine.


Tags: Anne T. Donahue

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