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October is the one month a year these girls get to dress like the product they've always been, and call it creative. Halloween isn't a holiday for them, it's a loophole, the annual excuse to buy forty dollars of fabric and eleven minutes of thought, and then make the entire town look at it. They all came in the same four flavors, because not one of them has ever had an original idea in her empty little head. The slutty nurse with a stethoscope she couldn't use to save a life, top cut so low a heart monitor would have nothing to stick to. The devil, horns on a headband, tail pinned to a skirt already riding up, the laziest costume legally allowed, and she knows it. The cat, whiskers drawn on by a roommate in a bathroom mirror, smudged to grey by ten. The angel with dollar-store wings shedding feathers all night like a molting pigeon. The pumpkin, which is orange shorts and nothing else. They move in packs of five, because not one of them can hold her drink, her coat and her balance at once. There's always a designated mom of the group, always the least attractive one, holding phones and jackets and taking four hundred flash photos of a garage door while the others scream. They pregame in a driveway. They pile into a car that smells like vanilla body spray and cheap tequila and hair. Then the physics. Heels they can't walk in, blisters by block two, costume tape surrendering by eleven, the strap that snapped in the bathroom line and got safety-pinned by a stranger. Tops engineered to lose the fight with gravity, and losing it, tits shoved up into a neckline that gave up the second they bent over, spilling out at the bar, spilling out on the dance floor, spilling out for every phone in the room. Somewhere around one in the morning one of them is crying in the smoking area, mascara down her face, because somebody called her costume basic and it landed exactly where she lives, which is nowhere. Morning after: the whole thing in a pile on the floor, fishnets with runs, bent wings, one heel, candy nobody ate, and a phone full of blurry flash-lit proof. They'll post the best three. They'll crop out the friend they're mad at. They'll do it worse next year, because the algorithm pays and none of them have ever had a better idea. nJudge them by what they chose. Rank the costumes by how little fabric they bothered with. Point out the designated mom and the one who ends the night crying on a curb with cum leaking out of every hole. Pick a favorite and be specific. Destroy these polyester whores. Leave your most brutal, limitless comments below.
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