I hate dressing up for Halloween. My costume career peaked in 2nd grade as Britney Spears from “..Baby One More Time” which, in retrospect, was not age appropriate, but did nicely foreshadow my dance to “I’m A Slave 4 U” just three years later in the Girl Scout talent show. My best friend and I were promptly removed from the stage 20 seconds into (scandalous, prepubescent) performance.
I still really like Halloween, though. Even in 70+ degree weather, there’s a chill in the autumn air as if cemeteries released the spirits of our dead loved ones just to tickle the backs of our necks all day. And with today’s start to mercury retrograde in the thick of Scorpio season, even the cosmos have a sinister agenda.
As I won’t be participating in festivities due to a packed work week, I thought I’d contribute to the holiday chatter with some spooks I’ve encountered this year. Brace yourself for one bone-chilling listicle.
- That time another Philly blogger plagiarized me. Not only did she jack an entire blog post almost verbatim, she was following me on Instagram—watching my stories, liking my photos—and didn’t suspect I’d see. Perhaps the scariest part of the incident was this grown woman pleading, “Please don’t hate me.” I owe drinks to the countless bloggers and friends who spoke out for me that day.
- Colliding with a biker whilst running the Schuylkill River Trail. It was my fault, too. I had barely eaten, faint in the August heat when I decided to whip around and run back home, not seeing a biker coming the opposite direction. We both crashed hard to the ground. I may have serious PTSD, but I learned an important lesson about awareness of my surroundings and mindfulness of others.
- Being asked to be exclusive with someone I’d known for two weeks. In my dream romance, this kind of “when you know, you know” pace works. But in reality as it stood, I felt like the math meme calculating how many times we’d even hung out to warrant this oppressive request.
- Learning I have a gluten sensitivity. Let it be known I still eat pasta literally every day of my life; it’s just now made from brown rice or chickpeas.
- Being asked to get my hair done “for free” by a salon over Instagram, triple checking while booking my appointment that everything would be free, and being charged $150 upon exiting. It wasn’t the colorist’s fault, but this lapse in communication when I’d happily box dye for $10 was scary. Word to the wise: if you work with brands and businesses on IG, get everything in writing.
- Speaking of hair and Instagram, being ambushed by MONAT girls in a group DM. No shade if that’s your thing, but there is nothing more dreadful than those, “Hey girl! Looking to make some extra income!?” messages. Next time I’m replying, “only if you’re about to Venmo me, sis.”
- A mouse that evaded NINE traps in my tiny studio. His name is Trent and he still roams these streets.
- The time I was in a rush for a bartending shift (RIP my Field House days) and didn’t feel like pitting my cherries, so I threw them whole into the blender for my smoothie. A few hefty swigs en route in the Uber and my intuition started buzzing: are cherry pits even safe to eat? Google urges me to CALL POISON CONTROL in case of POTENTIALLY FATAL CYANIDE POISONING. Cut to me crying over the toilet, ripping shots of straight tequila to induce vomit while my coworker does, indeed, manage to calm his guffaw and call poison control. I was obviously fine, but it was one hell of a morning that we’ll laugh about forever.
- Numerous instances of paranormal activity. For example, the other day I knew I left my shoes in disarray by the door before work. I also knew my closet light wasn’t working. I came home to three pairs of shoes (all of which I had known their exact scattered positions) lined up perfectly by the door, and the closet light on. This type of enigma has followed me since childhood and contributes to my witchiness.
- Going on dates with a guy with the same name as my ex… from the same country… and learning he’s my neighbor. The good news is we had nothing in common and I somehow haven’t run into him.
- Every time my vibrator dies mid-sesh. What the fuck, Rockie?