This was the first Halloween in a long time when I put a lot of effort into my costume. Lauren and I waited until the last minute, hitting the mall at 7:30-ish on Monday night, but inspiration struck and we pulled something totally cute together.

After throwing around impossible ideas like the cheerleaders from SNL and Britney Spears and the astronaut from the “Oops! I Did It Again” video, we decided on Venus and Bacchus, Roman gods who married but had infidelity problems. Our Latin teacher, Marco, would have been so proud.

As we were walking down George Street toward Tumulty’s pub I heard, “Toga! Toga! Toga!” I turned my head, expecting to see a drunken frat boy, but it was a police officer driving by. Only in New Brunswick.

Later on we hit a party a few blocks away, where, surprisingly, a few of the drunken girls I spoke to knew who Bacchus was. Lauren and I were definitely the best dressed in the dingy, dark basement. And probably the most coherent. As I was talking to Carrie, a girl know from Targum, a blonde girl dressed as an angel randomly – for now reason – fell onto the floor. She got up in a daze, mumbling, “No one saw anything!” and then came over to our group a few minutes later ranting, “My leg is bleeding so much!” I had to turn my head because I was laughing so hard. Is that rude?

As Lauren, Ben and I were walking back to our apartment in the freezing cold, we decided to be bad-asses. It was garbage night, so I picked up a garbage bag in front of someone’s house and carried it over to another family’s front porch. Lauren, meanwhile, was running down Huntington Street knocking over a garbage can at each house along the way.

Aren’t we absolutely adorable?

Andrea is here in good old New Jersey. Despite a completely fucked-up interview at my company yesterday, Candice and I have been showing her a good time. Yesterday we shopped at the fashionable C.H. Martin, where you can buy a pair of sweatpants for $9.88, we ate dinner at Nova Terra, a super trendy restaurant where a small plate of disgusting paella is $22 (but the wooden cigar boxes serving as bread plates were ripe for stealing), and I ditched journalism to take Andrea to Ocean Grove, where we interrupted a 50-year-old man from making out with his teenaged daughter and dove off of 13-foot sand cliffs.

Let’s say it together: good times.

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