Anyone who knows me to a reasonable degree knows that I utterly adore glitter. On one occasion, at the Secret Garden Party (a raucous British music festival), I was asked: “Zoe – do you want a shot? A pint? A balloon?”
“I JUST NEED MORE GLITTER,” I declared. By the fourth day of the festival, covering myself in ever greater volumes of shiny particulate seemed the only thing that could keep me going.
My best friend and I became so addicted to sparkly powder that it began to infuse our innards: she went to the toilet, and her excrement came out covered in sparkles. True story!
So for many reasons, this ridiculous and yet somehow remarkably philosophical blog post by some dude named Nik Cartwright on the “glitter terrorism project” brings me great joy.
“Then comes along this guy all out in the open with HIS glitter passions. What the… I wanted to kill him or at least steal his glitter.”
“He has great enthusiasm, I thought, but an infant to the real underlined authority glitter can possess. He lacks the control needed to pull off a major glitter movement.”
“The ringmaster of the glitter wannabes.”
“Stepping out of, for the first time, the conventional glitter box.”
“Glitter Fire-Works; gay glitter fire-works!”
“Uncut and pure premium glitter from my personal stash.”
“A near fatal glitter frenzy upon us.”
“There’s an underground glitter war out there and now you’ve seem it first hand.”
Glitter enema? Now that’s a step up from a glitter covered turd. Hats off.