Finally. The only day I get close to being paralysed on alcohol has come and gone and this post is two weeks late. Oppps. The line vaguely blurred by twenty one, I have concluded, my love for halloween will never waver. You get waved by the adrenaline just to head out on the streets and be part of the annual colonisation of costumes and alter egos. Though blended in, everyone stands out. And I guess that’s why I love it so much. Ok that’s a lie, I have no clue why I love Halloween to be honest.
This year, I was faced with challenge to marry the idea of grim wounds and a slightly inappropriate ‘raunchy’ costume that was wayyy to short for life itself while trying to incorporate an ingenious storyline somewhere in between. The three of us decided to breeze into the party as a red indian tribe with indistinguishable costumes. The only variant that help tell us apart was our ‘diverse’ facial inputs. I will hover the word ‘diverse’ loosely above your heads as you can tell, I was the only one who decided to sit in the opposition’s chair. The girls sought out to have bedazzled stickers aligned with perfectly impaired mini red stokes, those typical tribal markings. I took this opportunity to wreck the ‘slut’ bond and went gore. With zero skills of handling a brush and the lack of face painting technique… not to forget the absence of latex face wax (which in my opinion, this country should really consider shipping some in), I absolutely YOLO-ed it. With a little help from YouTube and improvisation… I did the best I could with… tissues and latex face glue.
Fast forward into the night, nothing out of the unusual besides the freedom to dress ridiculously admissible for this occasion. Our steady hands clenching on to glasses ready to ingurgitate the burning mess was something we were very familiar with… and so was pacing up and down flights of stairs in stilettos made by the devil, indecisive of where we should root ourselves for the night. But all in all, it was a good one.