Rebel Post: In Which My Hands Are Mini Glitter Bombs

I hate glitter.

If you've spoken to me for more than 7.4 seconds, I may or may not have expressed this hatred for the sparkling particles one often calls "glitter." Frankly, I hate the way it sticks to my skin and makes me look like a miniature constellation that accidentally feel from the sky after tripping over the moon.

So you understand my hatred when just yesterday I went to a store to use my coupon for a free travel-size lotion (free is good) and one of the employees waltzes up to me while I'm busy debating between "Japanese Cherry Blossom" and "Paris Nights" amongst the scents.

"Hello, miss," she said, fingering the badge on her apron that stated, "Hello! My name is Brittany! <3 <3"

"Hi." Keeping the answers short and sweet and hoping that she goes away was the idea there.

"Hold out your hand," Brittany <3 <3 commanded, holding up a bottle of who-knows-what that she had magically conjured out of thin air that smelled like lemons.

"Er...that's all right. I'm good." I tried to fend of her attack by surreptitiously scooting closer to the entrance, intent on using it as an exit.

Brittany <3 <3 either didn't get the hint, or chose to ignore it, much to my anguish. She grabbed my wrist and twisted my hand so that my palm was facing skyward. Or ceiling-ward, whatever you prefer. She plucked the lid off of her concoction and squirted it onto my palm.

You know those things called Pop Rocks? If you don't, then think of the fizzy bubbles in soda instead. That is exactly what it felt like.

I squirmed, while Brittany <3 <3 ordered me to rub my hands together. The strange fizzy substance crackled menacingly, as though it was intent on fizzing me to death, starting with my hands. After a while, the crackling died down, and I thought, hey, this isn't so bad!

It was so bad.

I looked down at my hands, wondering if they'd break out into a rash or something else drastic like that.

It was worse than a rash.

Blinking in the lights were little specks of glitter. The glitter had coated my hands, and they had done so secretly. I hadn't any idea what had happened until I'd looked down at my mini disco ball hands. I was so startled that I blurted out, "Good grief! My hands are mini glitter bombs! Eugh!"

Brittany <3 <3 had chosen this moment to make herself scarce, leaving me alone in my revulsion.

I still have glitter on my hands. This stuff doesn't come off. I'm thinking they put some chemical in there that made it adhere to my skin like little octopuses. Eugh. Beware of ladies in hot pink aprons named Brittany <3 <3. They will come after you with their sparkle goop. In fact, they're probably after you right now.

They're coming for you.....

Your glitter-infested blogger,

<3 Seana

PS: I made the mistake of touching my face with my glitter bombs. Guess who's got some nice glitter decorations chilling out on her forehead? No, it's not the neighbors dragon, why do you ask? 

...Okay, fine. Maybe I accidentally petted him with my hands too. Now someone has to share my suffering....