So, How Horrified Are You With The Idea of Making Halloween a Lot More Horrifying?
The last time I enjoyed the idea of Halloween was back in 2006 — when I was invited to the haunted house of an industry person — who turned his Mar Vista home — into a lit up fantasy land.
This year — I may attend a party and for the life of me — I can’t imagine what costume speaks to my current disposition. Right before tackling the elliptical machine — I stepped into the new giant store across from the gym— filled with all the outfits that are meant to match our most horrific tendencies. Rows and rows of options that boasted imageries that I hadn’t summoned in quite some time.
In the end — I was pounding away at the elliptical with the anger anyone would share if you find yourself without the headphones — you swore you tossed in your bag — when your head was still heavy from the night before.
Turns out that the soundtrack I needed was accompanied by the orchestral of an over-worked machine that screamed with each step — giving me more than enough incentive to keep the rhythm leveled to my mortified mood.
For the most part — I’m grateful for the person I’ve become and I’ve forgiven myself for the pile of shit that I wasn’t able to tend to — accordingly.
What I can’t make peace with — is the assignment of shrouding myself in garments and accessories that are supposed to mockingly illustrate how much more fun it is to imagine the pits of hell — when you can easily edit the scorching scenery.
Halloween can’t be any more horrifying than the current forecast that leaves me with a dry, stuffy nose and a list of elements that would make any ghost whimper for cover.
The shit going down in Puerto Rico is horrifying. American citizens are currently under water — and their President is annoyed with mismanaged debts and the outrage of a Mayor — who demands the very best from a country that is more than capable of such an act.
I’m horrified that parts of the world that are labeled “war zones” never register as hashtagged trends despite the horrifying images that command the attention of your senses. But you’re tragically too programmed to be swayed by the plight of humans — that were born to co-exist with fragmented debris and rotting bodies waiting for the sun to claim them.
It’s horrifying that we as consumers have managed to turn Apple into the monster that manufacturers mobile devices — scheduled for extermination a year and a half later. We’ve endorsed the idea that it’s perfectly normal to spend the equivalent of a month’s rent on a phone that takes good pictures and requires a plethora of high-priced accessories to make it functional.
It’s absolutely horrifying to accommodate the news cycle that shifts from harassment confessions to President Trump’s daily dose of poison. His potent shitfest feeds the wires that keep us all connected. We can’t operate without the reassurance of chaos because if it evaporates — we have to actually put in the hours necessary to keep our valves from obstruction.
I’m terrified of how horrified how I am — when I consider the future with shreds of the past preventing entry.
That’s the truly horrifying part.
Where do I fit in as this person who spent her twenties trying to be something, but had to wait until she was old enough to realize that her worst nightmare isn’t so bad — when you’re forced to embody it.
So what if you pathetically troll more established Millennials with Instagram pages filled to the brim with clips from Vogue — and other editorial giants that really dig it when people of color showcase anything related to the indigenous lifestyle.
Actually, I find that a bit repulsive.
Not in a nightmarish kinda way, but rather the chill that overwhelms when you notice how the essence of you is suddenly under the observation of brands. So many are benefiting from the ethnic movement — and the need to feed non-Black outlets enough content to match the insatiable appetite for tutorials on how to make the marketplace in the Diaspora — inspire your latest hairstyle and burgeoning palette.
What selected covering can adequately express the horror of witnessing how glued I am to strangers. I can’t remove myself from the exercise of patrolling responses to the most excruciating revelations. The show starts late at night — as the arranged comments direly confirm my worst fears.
The settings can’t save you now. When you signed up and validated your password — you agreed to be scared shitless by how vulnerable you are when your likes don’t reach the limit. You were tricked into the role of being trendy without considering how the charges more than rival your monthly bill reminders — that will surely follow you to your grave.
It’s scary as fuck to realize how comfortable you are with being scared — all the time.
You wonder how the next decade will feel — as you inch closer to mortality and further away from the dream that died when 2007 took a bow.
As the mirror presents the version of yourself that you will never get accustomed to — you can’t stop wondering why natural hair took so long to become the profitable venture that passed you by — in 2000.
By the way, the iPhone 6 is just the right size for masochists on the run.
It stores all the information you need — plus more of the stuff you can do without. Maybe a large costume that showcases buttons and a wide screen with Insta-worthy shots will coerce the respect of a Hollywood soiree in the hills that have eyes.
Or perhaps the Apple icon — with oodles of dollar signs filtering from the signature bite will suffice — but that would require my ability to construct such a weapon.
My costume for 2017 — is basically my legs pounding the machine that gave me permission to feel all the things that keep me from believing the lie of better days ahead.
It’s horrifying at first when you understand how mature you’ve become and how that shapes your unwillingness to adapt to the menu we indulge in — when our timelines are plagued with unsightly ads and the most retweeted fare of the week — dedicated to the issues that are horrifying enough to demean Halloween into an every day affair.
When you’re a generation Xer — caught between the malfunction of time and space — and a language barrier that still curbs your ability to readily come up with award-winning hashtags that virally register — even though your vocabulary survived the initial blast — you have no choice but to accept the paralyzing diagnosis.
The horror show will only end when you’re dead. And, to be honest — that’s not nearly as horrifying as it sounds.