and then I said, "this is what blogs are made of..."

Friday night I ventured out to celebrate my second favourite holiday of the year, Halloween. I spent a mere 12 dollars on my costume and 2 hours HAND SEWING it. You don’t know how many times I pricked myself with that gosh darn needle.

We must stop for a second though and think about the logistics of Halloween; someone thought up a holiday where young kids gallivant through the streets, knock on strangers door and then walk away with candy. It preposterous! Who is responsible for this utter madness! I want to give them a prize!

Mr. Inventor of Halloween is probably stirring in his grave now, thinking about how his innocent holiday has turned into what it is today. And I probably don't need to repeat myself a thousand times and use the phrase "whore fest" again. So I won't. You get the point.

So back to my night out.

I won the best costume prize! (I was a giant crayon in case you were wondering) I think I won the prize only because I was persistent on mentioning to everyone that “I HAND SEWED MY COSTUME! BY HAND! WITH A NEEDLE! AND THREAD!” Plus, when the actual prize was given out there were probably only 15 people in attendance, so the odds were already in my favour.

At the end of the night I hit a brick wall and realized that I was far too drunk to function. I took a lay on the couch and then fell asleep for a good while, periodically waking up to write the most incoherent text messages, ever. Finally, Jeff came to rescue me from myself and walk me part way home. On our journey we stopped to get some pizza and because I was unable to stand for more than 2 minutes at a time, I took a seat and watched. And watch did I ever. Drunk people are great. It’s really amazing how social everyone becomes at 2:30 on a Saturday morning.

I find the first set of people who I watch intently; the girl, who’s less than attractive is wearing a sailors outfit, and the guy she’s with, who she clearly just met, is wearing some boring, generic costume; he was probably a vampire, I don’t really remember. Then, for some reason, they decided to talk to me. It was probably because in my drunken state I was staring at them with the most scornful look on my face:

“You sure look unhappy, don’t you want any pizza?”
“I’m not not unhappy, I’m just waiting for my friend.”
“Oh cool. What are you?”
“I’m a crayon. A red crayon. See. I HAND SEWED IT!”
“OHHHAKHLSDHAHAHAH! That’s awesome! Can I take a picture!?”
“No.”
He then proceeded to take a picture of me.
Some random guy now has a picture of me in a giant crayon costume on his phone. I hope he makes it his wallpaper.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the pizza shop there were two girls wearing the shortest black skirts, corsets, and orange and black thigh high socks. They had pumpkins on their skirts, so I’m going to assume that they went at “sluts with pumpkins on their skirts,” but don’t quote me on that. One of them, we’ll call her Darlene, was chubby and unattractive, but as she stumbled around the pizza place I watched as all the guys in the joint gave her this “I’d totally fuck you silly” look. Poor Darlene. I hope she finds love someday. In the 10 minutes I was in the pizza place, her and her friend managed to chat up, pick up, and then leave with two random guys. One was dressed as a doctor, and I’m certain to think that he used some awful line like “I’m a gynecologist! Can I take a look?”

A midst all the commotion and activity, every three or four minutes you’d hear some drunk douche bag yelling incoherently. It went a little something like this:
“AHHHHHUHHHHHHHHHHhggggggggggggggUHHHHHWOOOOOYEEEAAAAA”

Once Jeff finally got his Pizza, we left, parted ways and I spent the rest of the journey walking home alone, because a cab was near impossible to find. I figured that wearing a giant crayon costume amongst a bunch of slutty outfits would be like wearing sweatpants in a strip club; I was certain no one would even look my way.
Apparently I was wrong, and in their drunken quest to get laid, the men of the evening were hitting on anything and everything, even giant crayons.

Two guys walked past me and used this line:

“You looking to get laid tonight?”
“Not by you!”

ZING!

A homeless man then came up and asked me if I had some matches. He seemed nice enough so I gave him the pack I had and then started talking to him about Halloween and my costume. He laughed and thanked me for the matches. It’s funny when a homeless man is the most coherent and sober person in the middle of belligerent 20 something’s. I’d be proud if I were him.

If you were wondering, I made it to my apartment safe and sound, but vowed to never again walk home alone wearing a HAND SEWN red crayon costume.