It used to be so easy for me to go trick-or-treating on the highest of holy holidays for candy worshipers. Every year I would show off my ninja costume and open up my pillow case. Then strangers I didn’t trust nor care enough to know their names poured all sorts of treats into my already bloated candy hole. But as age caught up with me and the facial hair started to sprout, those same strangers grew more and more suspicious and creeped-out about an abnormally tall ninja asking for candy.

Maybe it was because of the costume. I’ve never bothered to change it because of its outstanding success rate for bringing in the sweets. But over the years, the costume grew a little tight and folds of my fat would squeeze out from between the torn fabric. When I noticed this, I knew that my childhood had come to an end. That day was January 21, 2006. For the record, people rarely carry leftover candy. And if they do, they will not give it up easily.

Apparently there’s some sort of social taboo that puts adults trick-or-treating in a negative light. “It’s for children,” they all say.

But where are we to get our fun-size Milky Ways? Fun sizes of anything are not available in stores. Even if they were, paying for it would eliminate all the fun.

Women have it a lot easier with trick-or-treating as adults. Halloween is the one time of year when they’re allowed to dress up as scantily as they want and not have to undergo condescending stares.

“I’m a kitty!” she’ll say.

No. You’re dressed as a whore with cat ears. Do I slip the Twizzlers under your g-string the same way I would a five dollar bill?

I’d hate to do this, but this year I will be forced to single out the child with the heftiest looking pillow case and swipe it. This is what I’ve been reduced to.