A survey of post-Halloween behaviors

"I said lady what's yo number, she said 911"
-Lil Wayne

My life is fast becoming blasé. The reasons for the now insipid lifestyle are thus: Unemployment is no longer the Lazy-River, get-off-whenever-the fuck-I-feel-like-it ride it once was, my hair is two L'Oreal designated shades too dark, and I have come to resemble a freakishly pale, sun-starved Goth chick, sans the crimson full pout and neck dabs of Marilyn Manson-esque sex appeal. Furthermore, I have exhausted my text capacity; my own spider-like fingers are stiff, incessantly cracking in a plea to cease the neurotic texting. In a protest of the digits, I have unwillingly forfeited much needed company (typically male), the teeth rotting end text smiley faces, and the usual overabundance of LOL and JK. I find myself trapped under the weight of a grief stricken economy's unemployment rates. In early week morning desperation, I grazed a MSN article listing the top 30 states with the lowest unemployment rates, which turned out to be a directory of un-register-able cities in Middle America, and not the "cool, because we don't need to be on the coast" cities.

So what does one hardly starving writer do when she inconveniently finds herself still unemployed – the honeymoon period long passed – a self-proclaimed loser, and the human cookie cutter shape of the mundane? The answer: Revamp her Myspace, christen an X-Men moniker, and re-read "Candy Girl" for inspiration. In all actuality with use of the word inspiration I imply: you are a shit writer, grow some fe-balls (the obvious female version of testicles) and put some Abadi MT Condensed words on the virtual paper, bitch. Some refer to themselves in the third person; I call myself bitch or whore, dependant upon the previous night's actions.

The good news is that in my current attire of black jeans, coupled with a now defunct band t-shirt, I receive wafts of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne at regular intervals. Ordinarily this confection would inflame my sex drive, conjuring my latent sexual frustration, but I settle tonight for a face buried in between two knees, a pair of eyes peeking through dark overgrown bangs. I obsessively sample the scent of a stranger, sardine-packed in the backseat of a two door Accord, his jeans mingled with mine, the sui generesis scent snuck into my clothes, a consequence of my idleness in laundry services.

In the throes of post-Halloween blues it is this most sought after scent that balls my fist when an open palm and five outstretched fingers reach for the leftover candy, lounging in the bowl long after the night's romp has ended. It is celery sticks and apple slices for the next two months, in a remembrance of my once small waist and the ice cream scoop of my lower back. Halloween night was spent drinking domestic beer, interrupted by a shot of Jack; a precursor to furious dancing, a film of sweat lubricating our grinding to the growls of an ex-Wu Tang Clan member (insert shit music here). This aerobic session modeled bedroom gestures, a frivolous attempt to reverse the early evening caloric intake, that only left me drunk and ravenous in the wee hours of a November morning, licking chocolate from my wrist, and frantically scratching my arms, inflamed by the fragranced laundry detergent of dancing partners. To restitute the gluttonous behaviors of Halloween, I will put the treadmill on a steep incline and work my glutes to the syllables of the name Mrs. Carter.