Glitter Talks Shit

Hello. I’m a speck of glitter. Webster’s Dictionary defines me as a “small bit of light-reflecting material used for decoration.” Right now, as you peer into the mirror with that puzzled expression, I can read your thought bubble. You’re thinking: “Why is this small bit of light-reflecting material decorating my cheek? Where did it come from?” These are valid questions that will lead, in due time, to a surprising answer, but not before I explain a few things about myself.

The most common way I get transferred to the faces of heterosexual men like you happens at the strip club. As if they fear the sight of their juicy, bulbous breast won’t be enough to draw the focus of salivating men with Red Bull and vodka coursing through their bulging veins, it’s common for strippers to add a sprinkle of my friends and I to their chests to ensure that their naked figures will attract attention and, more importantly, as a result: money. We’re grateful for the exposure because, at our nucleus, we are vain exhibitionists, but all parties involved, including the most vapid of exotic dancers with the strongest affinity for all things shiny, realize that we are not the stars of the show. But that’s our purpose: to accentuate something grander with our tiny, gaudy molecules. At strip clubs, we’re like the dash of seasoning that subtly enhances your Titty Sandwich.

But we can rule out that possibility because you haven’t visited a strip club in almost a year. What’s the matter, pansy? Without fail, does the lowest light bulb shine just to the left of the words, “Hopelessly Impotent,” every time you grip the handle of a Love Tester? Should I retract the assumption that you’re a heterosexual man? Is your appetite sated by the sight of the President’s daughter’s rump in that plaid schoolgirl skirt as she crawls underneath a table to avoid a zombie in that “Resident Evil 4” video game you’re so damn fond of? My God, you paid almost $50 for that game! Why not blow that same amount of cash at the local gentleman’s club? I’ll tell Triple-Deedra (and YES, that is her birth name; her dad owns Broadzilla’s in Oshkosh) to squeeze an extra fistful of my kitschy comrades onto her burgeoning rack.

The point is: I didn’t come from a stripper’s chest. So we can dismiss that idea.

An interesting quirk about me is that I can thrive in environments both lecherous and wholesome. Glitter is popular in the dressing rooms of strip clubs, and you’ll also find a heaping bowl of us in every grade school art class in the civilized world. Talk about versatility! You’ll never find frilly decorative items like dried macaroni noodles and sea shells in a stripper’s dressing room, and the only time an exotic dancer craves a magic marker is when she’s run out of coke and desperate for a cheap buzz. And would you expect to see tassels and nipple rings available as options for adorning a pink paper box designed for holding Valentine’s Day cards? Shit, no! Glitter is the common thread that runs between sexed-up exhibitionism and youthful innocence.

But we both know I didn’t attach myself to you while you volunteered to help little Trisha Dupont decorate the twinkling eyes of old cardboard Saint Nick. That never happened, and if you ask me, it’s for the best that you avoid children.

That’s right, I’m glad you don’t volunteer to help young children, that you don’t bother posing as a respectable mentor. You’d make a terrible role model. When you pick your nose inside a room without a garbage can, I’ve seen you just flick it behind the couch or onto the floor. Some mentor—too lazy to get off his scrawny duff and dispose of his crusty nose globules into a garbage can 20 feet away!

I know you don’t do it in the company of others, but it’s the hygienic principle of the matter. Boogers shouldn’t be flicked into the neglected, dusty corners of a room, you disgusting wretch.

For this and many other reasons I will spare you the embarrassment of mentioning, you’re a lousy role model with no business sprinkling glitter onto shamrocks cut from construction paper alongside of Triple Deedra’s daughter Deanna.

And now, after some playful needling, Glitter will at last provide you some enlightenment, but not before needling you some more, you lazy sack of shit.

As I’m sure you are aware, for the past few months you have periodically stayed the night at your grandma’s house, preparing her meals in the microwave, making sure she takes medication to slightly abate the onslaught of her Alzheimer’s disease, and agreeing with her when she once again comments on how beautiful the weather has been lately—even when it was just raining miserably earlier in the day, before the resilient sun scared off the dusty coal-colored clouds. Alzheimer’s disease is certainly a colossal bummer, isn’t it? Especially when you know that it’s hereditary, and all the more likely to be skulking patiently in your genes, waiting until your Twilight Years to ravage your mind.

But hey—at least you’ve familiarized yourself with the effects of short-term—if not long-term—memory loss, by puffing that THC-rich smoke through a marijuana pipe on so many occasions. Remember the time you forgot the combination of your bike lock late at night outside your friend’s apartment because you were so blazed out of your gourd? Glitter remembers.

You had no choice but to walk home that night, 20 blocks in 20-degree cold. Glitter attached itself to your face that night after you smooched a bit with that tattooed drunk girl on your friend’s tattered love seat. She had bits of decorative light-reflecting material in her mascara. I don’t recall her name, either, but despite some minor acne, she was a 6 out of 10. That’s a Maxim cover girl by your standards! Whether or not she had glitter sprinkled across her perky chest will always remain a mystery to you.

Glitter digresses. You’re familiar with short-term memory loss thanks to the whacky tobaccy, but the Alzheimer’s your grandma suffers from provides none of the saving graces of the brain-cushioned euphoria you’ve grown to appreciate. The older you get, the more it seems that genetics is a game of Russian roulette. Brace yourself.

The pillow you rest your head on in the guest bedroom late at night has an uplifting message sewn into the fabric. The message reads: “You’re purr-fect just the way you are!” Underneath this stitched inscription is the design of an adorable kitten pawing a ball of yarn with great delight. The cat’s eyes are sparkling brightly because the irises are dotted with…drum-roll, please, knucklehead…GLITTER.

So. There’s your explanation. I hope you don’t think of glitter as a sort of parasite that lurks in the shadows waiting to attach itself to a new host. You know, some people appreciate glitter; they appreciate my ability to dazzle and entrance with just a few molecules of effort. I wish you were that way, but it appears you’re already reaching for a wash-cloth to scrub any trace of me from your cheek. I’m not sure if that wash-cloth will do the trick; I can be awfully stubborn. Why not get rid of me by grinding a belt-sander against your face instead?

Well, our time together has nearly come to an end, buddy. In closing, I’d just like to say that that pillow at your grandma’s house is full of bullshit.