Editor’s Note: This is a satire piece from The Collegian’s opinion section. Real names and the events surrounding them may be used in fictitious/semi-fictitious ways. Those who do not read the editor’s notes are subject to being offended.

Two years ago, I found myself in the doctor’s office. The prognosis was bad. They had me lying down on a table, poking prongs and stethoscopes into my orifices like I was in a real-life game of Operation, and they couldn’t get the wishbone out of my chest. I’m not a religious girl, but I prayed a lot that day.

Unfortunately for my prayers, I don’t think that’s how religion works because the doctor couldn’t look me in the eye — not without plugging his nose. Maybe God knew nothing could save me then. My life hasn’t been the same since, and I know. I know what you’re thinking: It’s so unfortunate that a young and healthy girl like me was given such a bad hand, especially considering my stone-cold face card and sense of humor. I know — it’s devastating. But I guess God had to nerf me somehow.

I didn’t know what to expect for the treatment; the doctor said its effectiveness was really a toss up. But I mean, what was I going to do? Suffer in silence? So I told him to bring it out. He left the room, and after a few minutes, he came back with a bottle in hand.

“My sweat therapist — in the medical field it’s called a perspirapist — gave me a list of pit-friendly Halloween costume suggestions: witch, black cat, dark night, shadow, lint. Below it, a list of costumes to avoid: angel, bride, snowflake, ghost, blank space.”

“Will it work?” I asked, teary eyed. “I’m all out of options.”

“It’s worth a try,” he said in response. “It’s prescription grade.”

I tried it for a couple months, but the deodorant didn’t work. That’s when I learned the medical industry wasn’t shit. I’m all the support I have. So over the years, I’ve worked up a lot of courage to reclaim my condition. It was a long journey, overcoming places without AC and turtleneck sweaters. But now, here I am, writing this loud and proud:

I sweat. I sweat a lot.

Though the wintertime is especially hard for me, Halloween provokes my insecurity like no other occasion. I just wish I could be like the others. While my friends plan their Halloween costumes around aesthetics, I plan mine around the fucking water parks beneath my armpits.

They style their hair in sweeping blowouts and ringlets of curls, and I want to do that, too. But by the time I’m halfway through, the volume has already fallen, I can’t see out of my left eye and I’m standing in a puddle of sweat like Elphaba melting.

My sweat therapist — in the medical field it’s called a perspirapist — gave me a list of pit-friendly Halloween costume suggestions: witch, black cat, dark night, shadow, lint. Below it, a list of costumes to avoid: angel, bride, snowflake, ghost, blank space. I told her I didn’t plan on being a ghost anyway, to which she said my “pale ass looked like I was preparing for it.”

I even went to King Soopers last week to get some candy for trick or treaters. While I was there, my roommates texted me to pick up some lunch meat. OK, that’s a lie. So maybe I took my sweet time perusing the deli for fun. Can you blame me? But I must’ve been looking a little too in love because the butcher leaned over the counter and told me to “lay off of it.”

“Excuse me?” I said, knuckle-deep in the prosciutto.

“Look at yourself,” he responded, gesturing to my pit stain, which was stretched out across my green long sleeve in full, wet display. “You’re really letting yourself go. You’re supposed to stop when the meat sweats roll in.”

I don’t really know what to do at this point. Halloween is soon, and I have no costume, no working antiperspirant, no prosciutto and no support for my condition. Things aren’t looking up. If I don’t want to sweat on Halloween, I’ll have to dress as a douche frat bro. Their shirts seem to be optional half of the time, and if that’s my only option, I’d rather be a ghost.

Reach Emma Souza at letters@collegian.com or on Twitter @_emmasouza.