Halloweekend: New Writers React

This is Halloween! Halloween! Halloweekend!!! Although most of our new writers have experienced Halloweekend at Kenyon before (seasoned, wrinkly Kenyon raisins that they are), each new year brings about new, fun experiences. So grab your candy corn and light up your jack-o’-lanterns (with fake candles; no real candles on campus, you silly fools!)! It’s time to see what these folks have to say about the ookiest-spookiest night of the season!

Nate Winer ’19
Despite having lived in Illinois since my birth, I sometimes forget how cold the midwest can get at night, and I wish that was something I had considered before agreeing to join in the group costume I was a part of. Walking from place to place while dressed up (dressed down?) as an Arrested Development-style Never Nude was an entirely unpleasant experience, which I do not recommend. The (mostly) naked human form is not meant to be subjected to the chilly Halloween winds. A friend did touch my nipple to see what the cold had done to it, and while I wasn’t upset by this necessarily, it also wasn’t something I was mentally or emotionally prepared for. Upside, though: Never Nude Calendar photoshoot.

 

Reilly Wieland ’21
I forgot to buy fake blood so my Pulp Fiction Mia Wallace had a drawn on nosebleed with the same red lipstick that I used for my lips. A kind, drunk upperclassman just thought I was sloppy and took the liberty of, without words, grabbing my face and smearing if off of me and saying “we’ve all been there, sweetheart.” Instead of explaining, I just let it happen. I also forgot to glue the syringe to my chest for the costume so I just stuck it in my bra and it looked overall very haphazard. Anyway, I drank the official drink of First Years (an entire cup of beer foam in Old K) and pretended like I wasn’t cold as shit.

 

Kylie Lohrenz ’20
It’s not a true Halloweekend if you don’t get in trouble in DKE bullseye for spraying silly-string into someone’s eyes and don’t have to avoid Peirce for the entirety of Sunday. For a night I transformed into Tiffany, Hot Mess, mother of three who needed some space from the mundane bustle of Long Island and her high-school-sweetheart husband who only notices her when she makes Chicken Parm. Tiffany went out with her Hot Mess friend Scarlett in the big city of Gambier, replacing her Spanx with smeared sexy makeup, a birthday crown, ripped tights, and an attitude of her wild-hearted past self. Tiffany and Scarlett lived up to their Hot Mess reputations, and spent most of the night explaining, “I don’t look like this because I’m having a rough night. It’s just my costume.” At the end of the night, I found myself wondering if that was true anymore. Staring at myself in an Old K bathroom mirror, clad in glitter and a fake Walmart engagement ring, I worried for a second that I had just dressed up as my true fate. In triumph of living up to the expectation of my costume, I fell asleep holding a box of Hot and Spicy flavored Cheez-Its.

 

Tyler Raso ’19
I had a four year plan, right: year one, Edgar Allan Bro; year two, Edgar Allan Disco, year three, Edgar Allan CEO; year four, Edgar Allan Idunno (UFO? Portmanteau? Cherry Tomato?). But I don’t even like Edgar Allan’s Poetry. It doesn’t Edgar Allan blow or anything. It’s Edgar Allan so-so, a bunch of congealed Edgar Allan woe, sort of Edgar Allan hollow, nothing Ed-citing. I need to Poe-pen up my options; Edgar Allan throw the concept away so I can Edgar Allan proceed with my life. 2018 is my Edgar Allan glow up. 2018 Halloween says nevermore to Ed.

 

Elise Tran ’19
Jackolantern Rum Ham in my arms, Dayman (ah-aH-AHHHH!) by my side, and the It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia theme song ringing in my ears, I was Nightman (ah-aH-AHHHHHH!) turned Nightslut, Nightman turned unchecked id unleashed, Nightman turned “found two hairs in my Jello-shot and was okay with it.” The days of this weekend passed in their normal linear way while the nights flashed in rapid and random succession, while I became the night itself: Haunted Leonard, sweet Shocktober croonings, to the Tafts and back, to the Tafts and back, Old K my sanctuary, Old K my destroyer. This weekend I cut a man from a lion costume meant for a four year old. This weekend I became the Night in all its iterations: man, slut, girl, crone. And if there is a toll troll to this weekend, my god, it didn’t exist until now.

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