Some people use Halloween as an excuse to dress slutty (thanks, Joel Stein, I haven't seen Mean Girls in years!) or as an excuse to dress as a woman (especially if you aren't one) or an excuse to dress, period. I don't. The closest I'm coming to a costume this year is this sweater with some brown pants, and in turn, it's the closest I've come to a costume, period, in, like, 10 years. I don't care enough to make the effort. Part of that has to do with Tyra Banks showing me the proper facial expressions to use to get candy. Who needs trick or treating when you've got fierceness?
Anyway, I do treasure Halloween for giving me an excuse to dress up my cats. I've repeated this anecdote before, but whatever, I'm gonna do it again: very early in the life of this blog, someone wrote me an email begging me never to dress Winston up. "He's too good for that," she said. I totally agree. He doesn't need no stinking costumes...except sometimes he does because it's fun. It's not that deep, he's just a retarded cat, you know? I don't like to break protocol often, but certainly the excuse of Halloween is too valid to pass up.
My boyfriend is generally the creative mastermind behind Winston's costumes and most things Winston, for that matter. He came up with the idea to dress Winston this year as Jabba the Hutt. He was inspired when he watched Winston lazily lounge on this platform we have in the living room while smoking his hookah. Just kidding. Winston's more of a blunt man. Anyway, he figured that all we'd need to do is throw Winston in the leg of some pantyhose and viola: Jabba. Yeah, well, uh, things didn't exactly work out that way.
Like, I don't know what the fuck that is, but I do know that it's about my favorite picture in the world.