he other night, I was walking down Bedford Avenue--a stretch of my neighborhood known for such high-fashion absurdities as skinny jeans, mullets, and handlebar mustaches--when I saw two twentysomethings in red face paint. Ugh, hipsters. Then I remembered it was the Saturday before Halloween. Oh, right on. I love Halloween. I love costumes. I love parties. I love all of these things until I am woken up at 4am by a drunken fight transpiring underneath my open window. To summarize? “I will kill you.” / “You won’t fucking kill me.” Etc., etc. Halloween, baby. Gotta love it.

I have no costume today, although I have a half dozen brilliant ideas I will not share on the off-chance I ever decide to use them. (Hint: White sheet, holes in the eyes = ghost) However, I will be wearing a wig. I have three. I think today I will wear the blue one. And if you feel like it, you can read this story I wrote for The Morning News. They asked us to write the ending to a horror story. Mine involves Britney Spears.