I love Halloween. Not for the parties, or for the excuse to freeze your ass off in underwear, or to makeout with a random “doctor.” The feeling of waking up Halloween morning, already terrified, fills me with joy. I just want that feeling to last all year round.

That’s why my only form of birth control is Plan B. Not a single option the crazed sex-ed teacher taught me years ago felt like a fun option, until I used Plan B for the first time. Since that wonderful realization, every morning after some mediocre sex, I wake up terrified that I might have to spend nine months and 18 years burdened with some loser’s child. 

This experience has all the key elements of a typical Halloween night: dark lighting, very few articles of clothing, and someone who never ends up coming. Not to mention that there’s truly nothing spookier than realizing you slept with someone named Josh. Plus, hemorrhaging $50 every weekend is as gory as it gets.

There’s even trick-or-treating included in this plan, as I get to walk to every CVS’ within 2 miles searching for the last off-brand Plan B. Even better, when I finally arrive at one that is sufficiently stocked, I get a personal haunted house! While some only fear for their lives while walking around a desolate building filled with clowns for a few weeks, I get 12 whole months of this joy. The aisles of a drugstore are always filled with ghastly sights. 

As a bonus, I even get to participate in the scares! There is no better feeling than seeing a Karen cover her 11 year old daughter’s eyes and cross herself while sprinting away from me.

But as a fear junkie, I have to admit that this thrill is already getting old. Maybe I’ll walk around without a mask just to feel something.

****Disclaimer: The Pinky Toe does not endorse any of this

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