House 1 -- 312 West Elm Street: 

No dice. The man acted as if he’s never heard of trick-or-treating. Come on. Remind me not to hit this house again next year. 

House 2 -- 314 West Elm Street: 

Another miss. The woman told me to get off her porch. Are people not getting my costume? Is my all-denim suit from Justin Timberlake’s 2001 American Music Awards appearance too niche? No. That can’t be it. 

House 3 -- 316 West Elm Street: 

This guy told me I was selfishly cutting into his “cherished family time.” What a weirdo. That said, I’m starting to think trick-or-treating on Thanksgiving wasn’t the goldmine I expected it to be. 

House 4 -- 318 West Elm Street: 

Since the definition of insanity is being repetitive or something, I decided to switch up my approach. I buzzed their Ring doorbell, jean cowboy hat humbly in hand. When they opened the door, I squeaked out “trick-or-treat” through a river of tears. Emotional manipulation is my bread and butter. “But it isn’t Halloween…” the old woman exhaled, bewildered. “And I don’t want candy, slut!” I snapped, still weeping. The door slammed shut. It was a tough scene; she got the best of me. I wholeheartedly regret stooping to her level like that. 

House 5 -- 320 West Elm Street: 

This time, I wasn’t taking “no” for an answer, like Jordan Belford, or Bill Cosby. A little boy answered the door. I explained to the boy the delicate situation I found myself in. I told him how Thanksgiving’s an untapped treasure trove for trick-or-treating dinner food. I told him how fun-sized Halloween candies aren’t enough to sustain a 200-pound Marlboro man. I told him tales of rejection at other homes: the chaos, the cruelty, my courage. Most of all, I told him about the darkness brewing within me. Under his breath, the boy muttered “I like your hat,” then swiftly spun around and sped back into the home. After a beat, he returned full-handed. Namely, two fistfuls of pimento cheese he stole from hors d’oeuvres. He dropped it into my festive jack-o'-lantern Tupperware. Jackpot! I swelled with tears from this pure act of kindness and handed the boy my cowboy hat. “I want you to have this. You’re a precocious child,” I said, “never forget that.” 

House 6 -- 322 West Elm Street: 

Another slammed door. The couple was so confused. I really wish I hadn't given that boy my hat, now my costume clearly makes no fucking sense.