Friday night was Halloween. Well, technically it was the whole day but for the purposes of this and most discussions, it took place at night.

Geanna, Katie, and I went out to a few bars because that’s where they serve alcohol and play music.

I was dressed as a mullet* (suit-style front, party paraphernalia all over my back. Right. Business in the front, party in the back), which didn’t go over quite as well as when I was eggs over-easy (egg carton on a headband, very little clothing on body) but was better executed than my version of white trash (white trash bags fashioned into a dress…ish). Yes, I tire of myself – frequently.

Over the course of the evening I spoke to eight men. I’m sure of the number because with each additional man I went into the bathroom and said the number to myself in the mirror. “Six men. You have, at this point, spoken to six men.” I do this when I’m drunk. Go into the bathroom and tell myself things in the mirror that I don’t want to forget. I think in my drunk head I’m telling a more sober reflection, but that makes no sense. Yes, this is bizarre, but not as bizarre as the fact that I’m sometimes compelled to run home when drunk. Literally, I jog – doesn’t matter the distance or outfit.

What’s interesting about those eight men is that they represent a number two times greater than the sum total of men I have spoken to in bars in the past six months. Statistics like that warrant further investigation. At man number eight I went to the bathroom and told my reflection to remember to think more about this situation tomorrow. See. It works.

I’ve decided it’s the costumes. What makes Halloween viral ground for productive interaction is the fact that we are all in costume. I was just as talkative and made just as sexy sexy-eyes throughout the night. But I did it all dressed as a mullet providing men open forum to walk up to me and say, “what the fuck are you supposed to be?”