We think of certain things or activities as being “wastes of time.” They are not worthy of our energy or even contemplation. More and more, observing society both at large and in the pinball game I like to call my immediate environment, I’ve come to believe that simply the act of “thinking” is a waste of time.

But I’m wasting your time.

The source of my despair this week is the impending celebration of Halloween — less than two weeks away. It used to be my favorite holiday. Now? I look forward to a processional of trick-or-treaters to whom the idea of a good costume is a waste of time.

1. Me (encouragingly, on the porch, Halloween night, a piece of high-quality candy in my outstretched fingers): “And who are you supposed to be?”

Young Trick or Treater with no discernible guise, snatching my proffered Butterfinger with a crisp sleight of hand associated with Ricky Jay (Google it, if it’s not too much effort): “Gimme.”

Trick or Treater’s Mom (apologetically): “He’s Sebastian Stan, aka Winter Soldier, from 'The Avengers' movie series.”

Me: “But … there’s no, ah, costume.”

Mom (drinking from large go-cup of Chardonnay): “Well, Blake is portraying the actor, Sebastian Stan, not his Winter Soldier character. You see, for purposes of tonight’s fun, Sebastian is in negotiations for his nine-picture 'Avengers' series contract. So we’re depicting Sebastian at a point when he didn’t actually need the Winter Man outfit yet.”

2. The next “haunter” is a little girl. Again, no costume other than a feather in her hair. Before I can ask, her father explains, “She’s Pocahontas. Or at least someone whose Native American DNA can be traced back nine generations.”

3. Four middle-schoolers approach in jeans and flannel shirts, their giant tote bags already filled with candy. Their faces, though make-up free, are contorted smarmily. “Can you guess what we are?”

Me: “Um, irritated, maybe?”

They convulse in laughter. “We’re Tweets. Get it? We’re the social media representations of smirking, right?”

Me (handing over my entire jar of candy): “Here, take it all.”

4. Then, after I’ve extinguished my hand-carved jack-o’-lantern — the only one for miles — and turned off the lights, there’s one more knock on the door. Against my better judgement, I answer it and behold a guy in his early 20s dressed in the uniform of a Confederate soldier and carrying a quart of Bud Light.

Me, wearily: “Hey, Johnny Reb, aren’t you a little old to be trick-or-treating?”

Johnny Reb: “Oh, is it Halloween? Sorry, brah! I was looking for the Trump rally. It’s tonight, right?”

Boo.