I won’t go to a costume party now and so shall it remain. Unless I’m dragged to one by a significant woman or a future former friend.

Then I’ll probably do that thing where I wear regular clothes and claim to be playing along. No, seriously, I’m a pizza guy. No, seriously, I’m my own ghost.

If forced to put in some effort, though, I think I can be anyone if I show up in a suit.

President Obama. Frank Underwood. Agent Smith from the Matrix. Buddy Holly. Slender Man. Charlie from Charlie’s Angels. Creepy funeral director. Creepy funeral director’s corpse. I’d have it all covered.

This is all hypothetical, of course. I’m never going to a costume party. The dirty shame from that mascot orgy is still alive and moaning.