I never finished carving the last pumpkin. I opened it and emptied it and left it lidless on the picnic table outside the back door, where it sat for a week in rainy weather.
In my defence, it still looked like a complete, solid pumpkin, albeit a pumpkin full of murky orange water.
Its integrity held until it was about six inches above the table, at which point it, in my hands, turned into a soggy paper bag full of mush.
I must have sworn or something.