Yesterday my daughter was at the kitchen table making greeting cards for me and other loved ones. She requested additional construction paper, but since I was sitting on the floor with Jake and it's just to much effort to hoist myself up, I directed her to get the paper herself. While pilfering in my stuff she found glitter and glue. I knew she was using it. Hell, I opened them for her, but I must have been experiencing some kind of out of body experience because I thought, "how big a mess could it be?" And yes, I am a dumb ass.
Fifteen minutes later, Samantha was all done with her project, politely informing me she'd made a little bit of a mess, but that I could clean it up. Strangely, I was not reassured by her confidence in me.
I finally rolled on to my knees and pushed myself to standing, grunting only twice in the process. I slowly walked to the kitchen table, afraid of what I might find. Indeed, what I found was frightening. The table, chair, and floor were a blaze with bright red glitter. I was certain some sort of strange thing had happened where a 10 ounce bottle expanded internally to hold about forty pounds of glitter. Oh, and some of it was glued on to the furniture and floor.
For a moment, I thought, "Looks, like I'm going to have to burn the son of a bitch down." Because I knew that burning the house down to the ground would be way easier than attempting to clean up this unholy mess. That may sound extreme, but if you've ever had to clean up glitter you understand. It's worse than trying to flick a sticky boog off your finger.
With the amount of it spread all over the kitchen I really believed it would be easier to set fire to the house and just build a new one. But, since I wasn't dressed for a fire (firemen are hot so you don't want to be standing on the lawn with yesterday hair and wearing fat pants) I decided to just clean up the glitter. Twenty minutes later I was still cleaning up glitter and re-thinking my future in as an arsonist.