During university I spent my third year away from home doing work experience. My little sisters were aged six and nine at the time and I missed them a lot. I sent the youngest a package of art supplies. She was delighted, and duly used them to make me a thank you card.It was very touching. She'd used almost as much time and effort as she'd used glitter. A thick layer of the stuff had managed to stay attached to the glue, and the rest welled in a small sparkling sea in the envelope.
Happy and reflective about the artistic zeal of infancy, I went shopping. Walking about the shopping centre I found that quite a number of people were looking at me. By quite a number, I mean more than none, which is about how many people take notice of me when I'm not doing gay fascist salutes.
Alarmed by this attention, I returned home to consult a mirror. The glittering visage that confronted me was as disturbing as bodily fluids of indeterminate origin. I looked like I'd been facefucked by tinkerbell. I turned slowly, as if appreciating a finely cut diamond, and thousands of tiny squares of plastic twinkled at me. Holding up a hand to touch a particularly fetching purple bit, I realised my hands too were those of a fairy fondler. They were, of course, how I'd got my shimmery countenance. But even that didn't explain how I'd covered myself quite so utterly with unicorn dandruff. That shit gets everywhere.
The picture with this post is not, as you may have guessed, the card my sister sent me but Demetri Martin's pithy summation of this most heinous of stationery.
Glitter. Just say no.
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