COSTUMES.

I'm the ghost. The one on the left, NOT the Klansman on the right.

There's something about costumes that give me the heebie-jeebies. I'm not talking about Scream masks and zombie makeup. I'm talking about the regrets and inadequacies that have plagued me since my youth. You see, as the offspring of two EXTREMELY economical individuals (a.k.a. cheap-asses), my childhood Halloween wardrobe consisted of two options: 1) Whatever my older brother was the previous year (like the ghost from above). 2) A baseball player. (And by "baseball player," I mean I wore the jersey of whatever little league team I was on at the time.) No matter how adamantly I pleaded to be the White Power Ranger (much different from the "WHITE POWER" ranger pictured above), my parents insisted I go door-to-door as a Texas Ranger (and NOT the Chuck Norris kind). Like a home schooled adolescent struggling to socialize as an adult, I continued to wrestle with Halloween costumes over the years.

What does that thing on my hand say? "BUN WARMER!" Get it!? The ladies didn't :(

My first attempt to re-accustom myself to these emotionally painful festivities resulted in even more embarrassment. (Word to the wise, tongue-in-cheek is no way to trick-or-treat.) Armed with limited time and finances, me and my two collegiate roommates scoured our shitty apartment in search of anything we could slut up like a stereotypical coed. (Their identities have been concealed, because unlike me, some people have shame.) Several minutes later, me and my two misguided amigos emerged from our mutual rooms as a Slutty Soccer Ref, a Slutty Dance Dance Revolution Mat and last but not least, A Slutty George Foreman Countertop Oven. As it turns out, only sexy girls have the ability to turn ANYTHING slutty. Our nihilistic humor may have been lost on everyone at the party, but I gained hours of enjoyment from watching the Slutty DDR Mat upskirt the tramps who drunkenly trampled him (physically and emotionally).

I VANT to stop sucking at Halloween costumes.

That traumatic failure left my Halloween spirit dormant until my first quarter of advertising portfolio school in Atlanta, Ga. The combination of an unfamiliar city and the abundance of fresh faces encouraged me to throw together another last-minute outfit and step outside of my comfort zone. Since humor (or at least my humor) had already failed me once, I decided to let pop culture dictate my attire. What was hot in the fall of 2008? VAMPIRES! What was not? Pale dudes who looked like they got punched in the face for wearing a suede blazer. I returned home with an empty cell phone and an emptier bottle of red wine (consumed only by me, unfortunately).

Never Nude = Forever Alone

A year later, I found myself in an all-too-familiar predicament. Once again I was single and desperately seeking a costume that might catch the eye of a slutty nun. Social commentary had failed me once before and pop culture proved to be worthless to me, so what would attempt number three be? I tried to think of something clever. Something simple. Something that showed the ladies what I was working with. Instead of eliciting laughter and lustful desires from the fairer sex, my Arrested Development reference resulted in looks of confusion and cornea damage from my blinding white thighs.

See what I mean?

After opting for a House marathon in lieu of Halloween celebrations in 2010, I was bound and determined to make 2011 the year of a successful costume. Once October rolled around, I had narrowed my All Hallows' Eve outfit down to three options. Option "A" was Patrick Bateman from the Huey Lewis & the News scene of American Psycho, but I decided against it when finding a clear rain coat proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Option "B" was my doppelganger (and potential biological father) Patrick Swayze, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't feather my hair like Johnny Castle. Which brings me to Option "C," 

Markster!

It was simple, it was kinda sexy and after being told a multitude of times that my demeanor matches this loveable serial killer's, I knew staying in character would be a piece of cake. The only hiccup was when the entire sole of BOTH of my borrowed hiking boots fell off and left me walking on solid plastic for the rest of the evening. I later found out that the shoes my coworker so "kindly" lent me were old enough for consensual sex. But despite my foot foul, the praise of fellow Dexter fans and my date gave me the vindication I've been seeking since my mom safety pinned a black towel to my back and called me, "Batman."


So, what should I be next year?