When I was in high school I feared that dressing up was a babyish institution in which I could no longer partake. Oh how wrong I was. In my freshman year at college it was revealed unto me that all I had to do was think of any costume and turn it into something outrageously slutty, and the fun of dressing up for this seemingly pointless holiday would live on for at least another four years. So I decided that this year I would be a cat, but not the kind of cat I was when I was 6; this cat will have fishnet stockings, high heels, and an excessive amount of eyeliner. But not facepaint, because if I make out with anyone I can't have him looking back and saying, "Damn, I made out with a chick who had whiskers painted on her face."