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From whichever day happened to be the day after Halloween in 1996 to whichever day happened to be the day before Halloween in 1997, my then six-year-old nephew obsessed — daily! — about who and what he was going to be for Halloween. He'd wake me up at 3:17am (we shared a bedroom) to say he wanted to be "The Fresh Prince"; he'd stand in front of the TV while I was watching Seinfeld or Caribbean Rhythms to announce he wanted to be a vampire; he'd interrupt the caking-ass phone calls I'd make on my parents' house phone to ask how I felt about him being Batman; he'd respond to questions like "Are you hungry?" and "Did you remember to brush your teeth?" and "Why aren't you wearing clothes?" with "Uncle Damon, I think I want to be a rock monster for Halloween next year."

And then, a day before Halloween, he finally decided he wanted to wear a Scream mask. Which, in hindsight, was probably an inappropriate costume for a six-year-old, but no one in our house gave a damn. Because we were all just thrilled he'd finally picked something and would finally shut the fuck up about Halloween. So my dad bought him a Scream mask and some black sweatpants. And I even bought him a plastic machete. Which, again, inappropriate. But my reservoir of fucks had been depleted.

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Halloween comes. We dress him up. Get him a canvas bag to carry candy. Shine up his Fisher-Price machete. And since I was nominated to walk him around the neighborhood, my melancholy ass even got into the act too, donning a pair of fangs and a Georgetown Iverson jersey to become Vampire Iverson. And then, right when we were about to leave the house, we walked past a full length mirror at the top of the stairs. And this motherfucker scared himself. Scared himself so convincingly that he no longer wanted to go treat or treating. And then he took off the mask, went downstairs, and watched Mrs Doubtfire. I have never hated a toddler more than I hated that toddler at that moment. If I came home today and learned that toddler Hitler broke into my house and shit on my bedroom top sheet, I would still not hate toddler Hitler as much as I hated my nephew at that moment.

My nephew is not the reason why I hate Halloween. But that story is an accurate synopsis of all the reasons I hate this gotdamn awful fucking day. It is a stupid day. The single stupidest day of the year. An entire day predicated on corny motherfuckers attempting to be cool by pretending to be someone exponentially cooler than them. Like Uncle Fester. Or Ethan Hawke. And then attempting to shame you for not fully embracing their collective corny. Like I should give a damn that you finally found a yellow jumpsuit on Indonesian Ebay to complete your Beatrix Kiddo costume.

It's also a day that gives people a perceived carte blanche to embrace whichever inner asshole is lurking within them. No other day is as forgiving of and welcoming to fuckboys and basic bitches as Halloween is. Secret racists don Blackface. Secret hipsters don iPhone costumes. Secret socialists don Obamacare registration forms. And I hate them all.

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As a kid, I grudgingly indulged because candy. And as an adult, I grudgingly indulge because Halloween parties are often the only opportunities to publicly view the actual sphincters of the women who like your Facebook statuses.

But really, fuck Halloween.