A lie told often enough can become the truth—and candy corn is a lie. Sure, after so many fall seasons, we see candy corn and associate it with truth, with tradition, with goodness. But fall wants nothing to do with the tri-colored saccharine triangles.
If you drank a bottle of Karo syrup and ate a candle, that's what candy corn would taste like. Fall doesn't want to taste like that.
Fall wants to taste like pumpkin seeds, roasted butternut squash, and sure, a Snickers bar, or any of the acceptable candies on Halloween. Candy corn = not an acceptable candy. Candy corn = nausea.
Like Kerry, a candy corn supporter, I love everything about fall. Shoot—I would marry fall. I would have its leafy, pumpkiny babies. My birthday is in mid-October, so when I came into this Earth, pumpkins were peacefully blooming in patches and grocery stores were stocking fun-sized candy bars. I know what fall is about; I get fall.
Candy corn has become an autumnal icon, and part of me thinks that's fine. I actually don't mind seeing it piled in bowls (probably because it means a pumpkin is nearby).
I also like yellow and orange. They are not loud or ugly colors in my book. They are the colors of mustard, cheddar, and fall—and candy corn, which can't help it was made this way. Either way, candy corn still tastes gross and I don't want it in my mouth (color is not the issue).
Please don't tell me I'm a fall hater for hating candy corn. I also hate Peeps, but don't hate spring.
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