I hate glitter. Yes. HATE.

I know it’s a strong word, but a single piece can send me into an OCD rampage. Glitter is like cockroaches; if you’ve seen one, there are a thousand more.

There is probably some sort of scientific explanation as to why the stuff ends up everywhere. Negative ions. Positive atoms. The same principles of static, maybe? A single walk down a holiday aisle will likely have you covered in the sparkles from Hell.

Speaking of holidays, who in the world thought it would be a good idea to add glitter to Halloween decor? I can understand a little glitter around Christmas and Easter. But nothing is spooky about a skeleton or witch dipped in twinkle trash.  The whimsical things for kids I’ll give a pass to, but I still wouldn’t buy it even if I had small children in the house.

I’ve talked about my disdain for confetti before. As of this writing, I believe I’ve found all of those pieces.  In what I hope is the last of it, I found about two weeks ago. The rogue pieces of paper were under the area rug in the living room. I found that odd as I’ve vacuumed under that rug several times since March.

Glitter is like confetti in that it lasts long after the party. Like YEARS later. If you ever see me out and about, and I’m wearing a shirt with any kind of glittery design on it, I’ve been taken hostage, and it is my signal for help.

Having said all this, I do have a confession to make:

I have glitter in the house.

I KNOW.

While the irony is not lost on me, the fact of the matter is there are some people in my life who enjoy glitter and all that it entails. Because I said love said people, occasionally I will find a craft or other project in which glitter is necessary. There is usually some kind of meditation and mindfulness when indulging my people. Love will make you do things you didn’t think otherwise possible.

All of that changed a couple of nights ago.

Having finished a project in which an inordinate amount of glitter was necessary to complete the look, I was cleaning up the area and putting things away. I picked up the very large container and realized the lid was loose.

I. ALMOST. DROPPED. IT.

My life flashed before my eyes. I saw a never-ending parade of glitter attached to every piece of clothing we owned. The cat sparkling in the moonlight. The dog forever sneezing out the tiny particles. It would have been easier to count all the stars in the galaxy than to ever hope completely eradicate the spill. This article from Lifehacker would be helpful should I find myself in a glitter-horror quandary in the future.

After securing the lid, gluing it shut, and putting all containers (yes, containers plural) in an air-lock chamber, I might be able to rest now. All future craft projects for gifts will mostly likely be glitter-free.

I have since mopped all the floors, finished the laundry, and vacuumed all other surfaces. Who wants to guess how long it will be before I find the first piece, lurking in the shadows, waiting to jump out and taunt me with its creepy existence?