Posted in 2015-2016, Humor

An Open Letter to Kids on Halloween

By Kaitlin Gertz

Hey, it’s nice to meet you. I’m the teenager you just interrupted. I mean, you did just intrude on my evening with your incessant doorbell ringing and slightly cult-y chants of “Trick or treat!” but I don’t mind. In fact, that’s my ideal night: handing out Butterfingers to a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle who can’t be bothered to put his mask on and an Elsa belting Let It Go. The groans and complaints about how it’s “not the candy I wanted” really give me that warm fuzzy feeling for your generation. Honestly, I cannot think of a more fun time than having to hear third graders on sugar highs screaming outside my door.

Seriously? My front porch lights weren’t on! Why the hell are you ringing my doorbell? Do the machine guns attached to the sprinklers not deter you? What about the Ouija board with claw marks hung over my door? Can’t you see that I’m not enabling your pathetic groveling? I have actual work to do. Being in high school is tough. And you know what makes it tougher? People who haven’t even heard of the SATs banging on my door asking for handouts. I have two things to tell you. One, I’m broke. I can’t even buy myself candy. I don’t know how your Darth Vader costume is going to convince me  to pay for your sweet tooth (although it does have a really cool cape). Two, don’t give me a disappointed look when you realize my bowl is empty. It’s called the real world, welcome to it.

That doesn’t mean the Halloween spirit is over! I’d love to take it back (to two thousand years ago) and start the sacrifices. In fact, the old Celtic All Hallows’ Eve is supposed to be about celebrating the dead. If you run across my yard and litter your candy wrappers, I might just have to get a jump-start. There are sidewalks for a reason; the government does not just waste our tax dollars like that. I might just start lobbing candy at the end of my driveway from my porch so you children can’t possibly mess anything up. You want your candy? Fetch.

I was in your Disney princess shoes once. I know how exhilarating it all is. But teenagers are trapped in a horrible Halloween situation. The days of dressing up and roaming around in the hopes someone will toss some candy in a plastic Jack-o-Lantern held tightly in your grasp are over. We’re too old for them. At the same time, we’re too young to go to “real” Halloween parties; i.e. ones not chaperoned by parents. It’s a miserable time, filled with test grades and college plans and stress instead of mouths of rainbow-colored candy and fake blood and glow-in-the-dark masks. Do you know how much I’d give to be one of you again? I love Halloween. Like That’s So Seventies! Show (before your time) once said, “It’s like we’re too old to trick-or-treat and too young to die.”

So go ahead and have your Halloween fun. Just remember, I’m not the only grumpy teenager who doesn’t need to be bothered by your (completely unnecessary) shrieking. I know you’re having a good time. Try to take a break from being monsters every once and a while and remember some manners. Because if not? Well, that Ouija board wasn’t just for show. Trick or treat, motherfuckers.

    Sincerely,

A Very Stressed Teenager

Kaitlin Gertz is a Sophomore at Barbara Ingram School for the Arts

Author:

Post Script is a magazine written, edited, and produced by the Creative Writing Department of Barbara Ingram School for the Arts. Through our articles, stories, poems, and the occasional lifehack, we have shared some of the things most important to us. There is a remarkable diversity of talent to be found in our students and their work, and we are unified by a common respect for that diversity. The editors and writers that make Post Script possible don’t have an end goal in sight, but instead a vision of a magazine that allows us to explore, learn, and grow. We have ventured into a new medium for self-expression and self-reflection, and hope that our art and the effort that went into this project will encourage, engage, and enlighten readers of all backgrounds.

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