(I'm not even going to address the recent loss of the apostrophe in spellchecks.)
When you spend your formative years a quarter mile off the road, Trick or Treating becomes a bit tricky. My parents didn't really understand it, either, "It sounds like begging. If you need candy, we'll buy it for you. And you don't."
Needless to say, I wholeheartedly embraced Hallowe'en later in life. But it broke my heart one year, when I dressed up as Marilyn Munroe. I'm 5'10", and in my 4-inch silver spikes, I was 6'2", heavily made up and standing at the bar when a diminutive little witch said to her friend, "Oh my Gawd! That's a GIRL!"
Can you imagine anything worse for a wannabe Marilyn than being mistaken for a guy in drag? Me, neither.
So, like most Hallowe'ens, I will spend this one with the house lights off, hiding out in my hot tub in the back yard.
With gin.
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