Pumpkin Byte Cookies

Cookies don’t ask for permission. They just appear—warm, soft, chaotic little circles of temptation. Halloween makes them worse. They come shaped like pumpkins and ghosts, as if mocking you with their cuteness.

You swear you’ll bake them for friends. Then your “taste test” turns into a one-person feast.

There’s something primal about scooping dough. It’s therapy for people who don’t trust their own thoughts. The sound of the mixer is your white noise machine.

The smell starts to fill your kitchen, and you suddenly believe in hope again. If heaven had a scent, it’d be cookies and chaos.

Halloween cookies don’t need to be perfect. The icing smudges, the bats look like mutant cats, and the ghosts resemble fried eggs—but somehow that’s the charm.

You burn half the batch and pretend it’s “intentional.” Congratulations, you’re an artist now.

The first warm bite hits like a memory you didn’t know you missed. Crispy edges, soft middle, mild regret.

You tell yourself you’ll only have one. That lie has aged worse than your Spotify playlists.

The cookies vanish faster than your paycheck. You swear someone else ate them, but deep down you know—it was you and your poor impulse control.

Halloween isn’t about tricks or treats. It’s about emotional support snacks.

You find crumbs in your hoodie later. That’s not dirt—that’s your legacy.

You try to share, but your soul screams “mine.” Sharing cookies feels like giving away happiness.

Sometimes you think about freezing the dough to “save for later.” You never do. The dough becomes midnight dinner.

Cookies are time travelers. One bite and you’re a kid again, stealing from the cooling rack while your mom yells your name.

The sugar rush hits. You start cleaning at 1 a.m. because you’ve become a domestic tornado.

You post your cookie chaos on social media with captions like “nailed it.” You did not.

There’s a weird peace in licking the last bit of icing from the spoon. It’s self-care, just stickier.

Cookies are proof that happiness fits in your hand.

By the time you’re done, you realize Halloween isn’t haunting you—you’re haunting the kitchen.