I’m seriously shaking from the sugar. My eyes are all jangley and I’m not sure whether to drink a liter of Dasani or do cartwheels down the hall.

Candy corn
Little minions of
Satan, yo.

I was challenged to update on my sugar high so here goes. I’ll protect the challenger’s anonymity so you don’t all flame him for the disjointed and silly entry this is bound to be.

I’ve been invited to my first dress-up Halloween party in about ten years. I’ve never gotten into costume as an adult and I’m perfectly stumped.

As a little girl I was a cat, a princess or a witch. Every year. I learned the importance of a sexy Halloween costume at an early, early age.

1981: Princess. I wear a nightgown, pink rayon with lacey edges, and I pull the sleeves down so that my gown is off the shoulder. Blue eye shadow, fuschia lipstick and a crown of dried flowers from the Texas Renaissance Festival complete the look. Turns out, this is one of the chilliest trick-or-treat nights in recent history. My mom makes me wear a sweater. A blue, stupid sweater!

Wearing a sweater kills the entire look! How can I show off my sexy shoulders when you make me wear a sweater? WTF, mom?!

The power of skin has lured me from an early age. So now that I’m all grown-up and it’s legit to show off, what am I going to be? I need help, ya jags.

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So the Texan gave me a rubber band that said "luminous." What’s that supposed to mean? Does he consider this his move? That’s not a move! Sure, it’s a compliment, but it’s not a move. A move is asking me out to dinner.

So what do I do now? Ask him out? I’ve never been a champ when it comes to pursuing boys. It makes me incredibly uncomfortable.

In elementary school my friends and I were in love with two boys from kindergarten on – James and Scot (yes, with one ‘t’). My friends were always leading initiatives to chase them around during recess, or go over to James’ house after school, or call them on the phone. I was definitely a follower in those situations. A follower, all the way.

In the fourth grade Scot passed me a note with two cryptic lines:

Are you going to be home after school?
I’m going to call you because I need to ask you a question.

In the pink-tiled girls’ bathroom my friends and I decoded his boy language – Scot was going to ask me out. This was a monumental occasion. Not only was he the most popular, cutest boy in school, no one else in our grade had been ‘asked out’ yet. I would be the first.

He called. He asked. I asked him to hold on because I had to go ask my mom.

Go ahead, laugh all you want. Get your giggles out. I’m giggling right now too, but it’s the sugar! The sugar! Not because that’s the most ridiculous thing ever.

See? I’m no good with guys and I’ve been a screw-up from the get-go. I can’t call them. I can’t ask them out. I can’t even say yes to their invites without asking my mommy.

So perhaps the Texan isn’t sure I’m into him. How do I let him know? People, help a girl out.

I think the sugar ate a hole in my temple.