I want a cupcake. It is January 23.
I want a Halloween cupcake, with black icing and a tiny gravestone, or a stylized ghost, or a jack-o-lantern. Now I want three cupcakes. It is currently January Twenty Third, and ergo, there are no professionally crafted Halloween confections (of any sort) to be had.
“Halloween Season” (I hate that term) is not for, as commonly (incorrectly) accepted minimum, eight months away. If I go into the store, and say “May I please have a Halloween cupcake?”, the response I’m going to get is, “MY GOD SIR, that shirt is terribly bright green. We will sell you a cupcake, possibly even a Valentine’s Day cupcake, but a haunted confection? IN JANUARY?! WHAT, ARE YOU MAD, SIR?”
To which I shall re-recreate my childhood award-winning interpretation of the Tell Tale Heart, by screaming at the top of my lungs, “I AM NOT MAD!” then whispering, “I am fantastically civilized, simply not from your perspective of civilization.” (I really did this in school, and won an award, and was severely mocked. Until I started replying, in kind, with better diction and vocabulary. In character. Never backing down. It was fantastic.)
I am writing the business plan for Evil Supply Co.’s offerings to non-professional villains and it is driving me slowly, irrevocably, insane. In a backwards sense, I’ve hammered out my elevator speech at the beginning (typically this is among the last, and most difficult, tasks): I want a Halloween cupcake, with black icing and a tiny gravestone, or a stylized ghost, or a jack-o-lantern. In January.