Let’s face it, Halloween is 2% costumes and 98% Candy. We don’t want to love you, Candy, and yet we can’t help ourselves. We know you’ll leave us a heap of jittery, dehydrated disappointment, our plaque-encrusted smiles long left behind. We think we learn, and yet, year after year we reach out to you with peace and love (and futility) hoping to find you’ve changed your ways, that you’ll still be there in November, reasonably portioned after a sensible meal of salad and sparking water. But we know that you are a cruel lover, and that we’ll probably wake up on November 1, chocolate-smeared and tear-stained, with nothing but your empty wrappers littering our floors, the cruelest Dear John letter of all.