You escape MATH 100 at 9 pm. Drunk with power after getting a solid C on acing the test, you’re eager to get ready. It’s Hallow’s Eve and Brandon Beans (AKA Beantown AKA the star freaking quarterback of the football team) is throwing a rager and you’re invited! Hurry! The costume contest starts at 10 and your sexy Garfield is sure to win, especially since you’re bringing a home-made lasagna. This is your night. 

You scurry home along a dimly lit path. The leaves underfoot are crisp and so is the air. You get to your apartment with plenty of time to pop the lasagna in the oven and shimmy into your fursuit. You finish drawing your whiskers and prance out the door with a scrumptious pan of hearty lasagna in hand. Oh what a night is in store! 

Jack-o’-lanterns adorn the porches and trick-or-treating is in full swing. Out of the corner of your eye you see a large shadow that sends chills down your spine. A bear! Wait, that’s no bear. That’s the biggest raccoon you’ve ever seen. You watch the grotesque beast gobble up half a bowl of candy and stick the rest into its belly rolls, the result of far too much campus compost. “Sir, the sign says ‘Take one’!” You chase the bandit and arrive at Farrand Field. Drat, you’ve lost it! As you turn to leave, the shaggy behemoth’s glowing eyes lock with yours. It pounces and throws you to the ground. 

Dazed and bruised, you turn your head and watch the monstrosity’s striped tail disappear. What’s that on the ground over there? Good God it’s my lasagna! Farrand skater boys relish in the opportunity to practice gnarly kickflips in the mess and howl with mirth as it splatters. No matter, you won’t let the destruction of your tasty prop keep this from being the best night of your life. Onwards! Sure, you’re bleeding a little from the raccoon attack, but if anyone at the party asks you can just say, “I hate Mondays”.

Obviously you have to bring something else to the party now that your three-cheese lasagna is ravaged. Eureka! If you get hotdogs, you can make a joke about finally getting that dumb dog Odie out of your hair. And you know just the place. 

Right away, the 7/11 on the Hill gives you the worst case of heebie jeebies you’ve ever had. Something awful happened here. You order 20 spinning sausages and grab a soda pop for the girl outside that urgently needed coke. The salivating cashier scans each wiener one at a time while staring at your jugular. Since when are there barcodes on hotdogs? You don’t wait around to find out if those fangs are part of a costume and scamper out of the cursed place with your purchase.

One step into the crosswalk and thwack! You’re on the ground again, blinded by the headlights of the car that just hit you. A drunk goblin hobbles out of the car and hovers an inch above your face. Phew! It’s just Chancellor Philip DiStefano. You were worried the night had really gone awry. He snickers and treats himself to hotdog before squealing off in his hot rod. “Give the wife my regards!”

The night is young! You’ll make it to the contest with time to spare. You turn a corner and encounter the most terrifying thing known to man: a gaggle of freshmen boys on the way to a frat party, clutching Juuls and blue raspberry Svedka. Immediately your bladder empties, soaking your cat costume with urine. Brandon Beans can’t see you like this! 

You race home and cut up your sheets for a makeshift ghost costume. This will have to do. Finally! You make it to the party. The music and sounds of celebration beyond the door are titillating. Knock, knock, knock. Brandon Beans opens the door. Oh my god it’s Brandon Beans. Keep your cool. “Hi B-b-b-b-beantown,” you say. You puke a little bit in your mouth. No, you puke a lot. Oh my, it’s everywhere! You’re swiftly ushered out of the party. Ah well, maybe next Halloween.