As I write this, I am in the basement of the house with my lights off.
I’m sick of giving kids candy, and I don’t care anymore.
These little butt-guzzlers have been ringing my doorbell all night long, and I’ve been whipping Kit-Kats at them like I was an ill-tempered Sandy Koufax. I mean, for crying out loud, I’m trying to get some work done in here! Like I don’t have better things to do than to toss some little princess or Sith lord an undersized packet of Skittles. I would just as well spoonfeed BBQ sauce to a malnourished walrus.
So now I’m down in the dark, dank basement huddled over the glow of this computer’s monitor, and sucking the remaining flavor out of a chunk of jerkeyed meat that long ago lost its tang. I am wearing sweatpants and muttering obscenities towards a man named Seth whose existence is unlikely. I have made no effort to stop the jerky-drool that is collecting on my desk, for to do so would be an affront to the Jerkeymaster (i.e. Seth). My elbows feel dry. My hair is bushy and unkempt. My dreams lay about me in ruin.
Merry Halloween everybody.