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The Science of Hate

I am alone in the dark wearing secret hair extensions, contact lenses, and a faceful of various Revlon Colorstay makeup that I have no intention of taking out or off. If I do, I submit to the fact that this evening is over, and I did nothing but eat Chipotle and trip all over the shit on my floor that I can't be arsed to pick up. I did manage to wrestle some Halloween lights up into the windows that I'm now listening to fall down.

Work was a nightmare today. You take a day off, and grownass men totally lose their shit over a tampon dispenser and some temporary fencing. 47 emails and 10 voicemails later and I'm finally caught up. I stand up and pull my mini pumpkins and Indian corn I've brought for Autumn ambience out of my sugar skull bag that I carry year round beeteedubs, and my coworker Dawn looks over at me and announces to my other coworker Betty that she hates Halloween. "So tacky," she finishes her hate speech up with and turns back to her computer with dolphin wallpaper.

Do I lob this pumpkin at her head? I asked myself as the section manager came around the corner. "Ooh snacks!" she said, winking at me. It was at that moment I decided that my decor was not near horrifying enough and that tomorrow I would bring shrunken heads of Dawn and Betty, push my state-issued pins through their eyeballs, and display them on sticks outside my cubicle.

But fast forward to now, on my couch dressed up like a drag-queen watching a Tiny Houses marathon. Shrunken heads aren't in my future.