I go to bed every night lulled by the sweet thought of children meticulously counting down the days until the most manic, sugar induced fever-dream of a holiday rolls around once more. Looking back on it now, I’m glad most Halloweens landed on a school day, I can’t imagine the social ramifications of annual deviancy, debauchery and straight up dumbassery brought on by these prepubescent bastards left to their own devices for hours before the greatest night of their lives commences. I was never much for these wretched little tricks myself. In fact, despite my love for Hallows Eve, I’d much rather dress as a sexy zombie with a hankering for butts, not an icky bloodthirsty type bloke that’s into brains! No, I’m more concerned with the more innocent member of the inseparable holiday duo: trick’s nonconformist empath of a brother, treat! Who has time for tping and flaming bags of poop when we could dedicate all our energy to the beauty that is the Boo.
What is it to Boo someone you may ask? Anyone confusing this for the publicly humiliating onomatopoeia, need not worry (nor must any theater major recalling the time they were a bit eager to show off their improv camp techniques relive any failed attempts at standup). Booing is the act of anonymously sending candy to the doorstep of any friend, acquaintance, or arch-nemesis with whom you incessantly enjoy spending hours upon hours trying to bamboozle through increasingly complicated attempts of hijinks. No matter, the purpose is for them to send a new bag of candy to someone else. Keep the chain going, and you have a mystery with the type of he-said she-said mania that our country hasn’t seen since the Salem Witch Trials. Talk about a spooky full circle mome.
The beauty of the Boo comes from its sheer simplicity. Plus, in our era of performative activism, we owe it to ourselves to do more random acts of kindness beyond anonymously submitting a UVM missed connection about wanting to fuck the slightly transphobic bio major in your entry level Spanish class for pronouncing the h in hablar. It is for this reason that I want to bring the art of the boo to my dorm. I’ve been ruminating over it for a while now and visualizing the unlimited potential a boo in Millis could be the event of the year– nay, of the century. On paper, Millis has it all. Winding corridors acting as the perfect agent allowing for a quick escape post door knock. A community of passionate, wide-eyed freshman obsessed with documenting every interesting thing that happens to them for a chance of recognition on social, and of course providing the Millis stoners with bite sized candies to perfectly balance the insatiable munchies without getting them too full spells for a recipe for success. There’s just one tiny thing standing in between me and my confectionary antics. College kids suck! If there’s one thing that living in this commune of self-absorbed, corduroy wearing Aryans has taught me is that you can’t rely on anyone for shit! How am I supposed to get the ball rolling on my confectionary antics when I myself don’t even have any candy of my own to give! Of course, I could drive somewhere to get some but what about all the other useless freeloading children of this god forsaken dorm? Who’s to say that my sweet aspirations of world peace can be trusted in the hands of kids whose weed dependency and alcoholism come into contact weekly with their other addictions: ceiling tile vandalism and bathroom sign kleptomania. What’s the takeaway from all of these? We’re all flaming bags of poop, and we should just stick to what we know best, TP. Have a safe halloweekend, everyone.