It’s 2011. You’re ironically/unironically dressed up as a Playboy bunny. You usually don’t even wear mini skirts, but today you’re in sheer tights and a playsuit that keeps riding up your ass. You spent two hours on your makeup using every pot of glitter you could get your grubby little hands on. You shaved every inch of your body and then used a Body Shop moisturizer that’s two years out of date and made your skin burn.
Your tongue is stained green with jello shots and you’ve been eyeing the hunky vampire in the corner. At least, you think he’s dressed like a vampire, as he has some fake blood on his face and he’s wearing a black t-shirt. You make your way past the tangled cobwebs from Party City that prove the host tried to decorate, and within 10 minutes, you and your soulmate for the night are making out to the romantic tunes of the Black Eyed Peas. It’s a Y2K Halloween, and all is well in the world.
Now tell me, doesn’t this sound incredible? Doesn’t this sound like the best way to spend Halloween? No, scratch that, the ONLY way to spend Halloween?! Then why has the past decade led us to this infantile, over-processed wholesome Halloween?!?!
I am sick of pumpkin patches being the ultimate Instagram post, rather than a blurry shot of you supposedly dressed up as some animal with your tits out. I don’t want to go to a Halloween party which has decorated cupcakes and carefully constructed decorations — I want a strobe light that blinds me and a punch that smells suspiciously cherry-like.
If it takes me more than one minute to guess your costume, you’ve failed. I shouldn’t have to THINK this Halloween, I should just be EXPERIENCING. Your costume shouldn’t require brain cells, as I knocked those out with my impossibly tight headband that’s keeping these cat ears on. I want to see the classics: Slutty Cat, Slutty Dorothy, Slutty Witch, and Slutty Fairy. And for men, there are excellent costumes like a Mummy, Zombie, Cowboy, Vampire, or Man With Sunglasses.
I don’t want intricate makeup tutorials that show me how to be Medusa, I want a cheap headband that I’ll lose halfway through the night, and then I’ll steal some dude’s cowboy hat in a poor attempt at drunk flirting.
The next morning, the host shouldn’t be done cleaning in time to go to the farmer’s market for some figs and zucchinis. The host should spend two entire days trying to bring their home back to its previous state. They’ll find the toilet seat lid on the balcony. They’ll find panties, cat ears, and vomit in every nook and crevice. They’ll regret throwing this party in the first place, until everyone is tagging them in Instagram posts calling it the BEST HALLOWEEN PARTY EVA! Until next year that is…
Every Halloween should look like that scene in Mean Girls. It was the gospel of truth.
“In the real world, Halloween is when kids dress up in costumes and beg for candy. In Girl World, Halloween is the one day a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything else about it.” — Mean Girls, aka my Bible
Halloween is supposed to be a night off from dignity and poise. It’s like the Purge of Horniness. You get it all out of your system in one fucked up night. You drink far too much, you dance like you have literal ants in your pants, and you’re constantly on the hunt for your target. Then for the rest of the year, you sip a cooled glass of Chardonnay, create elaborate charcuterie boards, and dress like you haven’t had sex in a decade. And you wait in eager silence for the next purge.
I invite you to join me in this fight to bring back Slutty Halloween©. Turn your nose at intelligent costumes that cover more than 60% of your skin, forego a classy glass of wine, empty your fridge in favor of Jello shots, and return to the true trenches of Halloween with me. Please.
