Fear the wearer of the orange sneakers!

Boo! Trick or blogtreat.

I haven’t bought Halloween candy yet, and even if I do, I won’t be home to hand it out tonight. I’m not too afraid my house will get TPed or egged if I don’t deliver, but I do have some lingering doubt. So I’ll probably dump it all in a big bowl and set it on the front step. The kiddies are getting mini Mounds and Almond Joys, not because Rockapella sang jingles for those candies, but because I hate their turdlike fake coconutness and will not be tempted to eat them myself. Whereas if I admit mini Snickers or Baby Ruths to my home, a horrorshow of gluttony will ensue.

Shoot. Now I’m hungry. I’m almost always hungry, and my boundless appetite scares me. If I gave into it, I might become a hideous chow-monster like that guy in that X-Files episode ("Hungry," 1999; scary how I remember stupid junk like that). Of course, if it meant Agent Foxy coming to debrief and debug me, that might not be so bad.