I love October. It’s the other months I can’t stand.
From November to September, I have to live in unbearable places filled with unbearable people. I have to live in bright, sunny forests with joyful pixies and fairies. I have to live in caves invaded by gallant knights and handsome princes who plot to vanquish me. I have to haunt roads of yellow brick and meet giggling little Munchkins.
I have to live in bedtime stories. I have to live in fairy tales, picture books and pantomimes.
I’m a witch. I’m the witch.
I’m the witch with the pointed hat and the tattered dress. I’m the witch with green skin and a broomstick that flies. I’m the witch that tries to eat Hansel and Gretel. I’m the witch that curses Sleeping Beauty and poisons Snow White. I’m the witch who is always defeated by adventurous children and brave princes and other people who are constantly too nice and too happy.
For eleven months of the year, I am trapped in a world that’s far too happy and nice inhabited by people far too happy and nice. People who are almost never sad, who have perfect lives and perfect personalities. People happy twenty-four hours a day, 366 days a year. I’m forced to listen to their ear-stinging laughter until October comes.
For eleven months, I live in saccharine storybooks and cheery fairy tales. In October, I live in ghost stories, partyware, decorations and costumes. I leave the green forests for monochrome graveyards and abandoned Victorian mansions.
The people there are also nice and happy, but they’re only nice and happy in October.
For most of the year, Dracula is the embodiment of evil. In October, he smiles, drinks cola and eats sweets. He’s nice, but it’s a genuine niceness; not the constant artificial one I see most of the year.
Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein’s Monster as a tortured, anguished soul, and that’s how he is most of the year. In October, he’s a funny, silly party animal. It’s a happiness, but a deserved happiness.
In October, I’m the witch. I’m the witch on the sweet bags, partying and playing with ghosts and zombies who are mindless and miserable most of the year. I’m the witch on the posters, smiling at a werewolf who acts like an overgrown puppy, instead of lamenting the beast he becomes during the full moon. I’m the witch in the novelty songs who dances with skeletons, symbols of mortality turned symbols of fun.
I’m the witch who, most of the year, tries to end the happiness of those that have too much of it. I’m the witch who, in October, encourages the happiness of monsters that need it.