Easy no-mess glitter slime tutorial!* by SARAH DUGGAN

I’ve heard people compare their grief to beautiful things - glitter,

sea-smoothed pebbles, birds. That said, if one more person compares

my grief to a piece of glitter I may lose it.

My grief is like cheap, homemade slime. The real messy kind that’s the

bane of anyone with delicate carpeting. It is sticky, goopy, and somehow

both wet and dry. At first, it covered me - matted my hair, it got up

under my nails, up my nose. I would try to wipe it off, the gummy

substance pulling out little arm hairs as it went, the pinpricks bringing

tears.

It stuck under my shoes - like gum dragging itself around my apartment.

At least gum dries up and falls off eventually, this slime continues to hold

on; pockets of it snagging the sweeping brush, collecting grime on its

surface.

It sticks to loved ones, leaving those stretchy tendrils of goop between

 those I reach for, marking them with the same gunk that I have become

enmeshed with. 

“Don’t point it out, and please don’t try to pull it off me” I beg friends,

who do not realise that picking at it is just going to make it a bigger problem

when the opaque mess does not let up its grip on the soft fibres of my

clothing.

I can still see it. The grease spot from when I flung the mass of slime at the

wall in temper. It was suffocating, enveloping my skin and refusing to budge.

It landed with a muted thud and stuck there, glistening mockingly. Gradually,

it started to slide down, leaving a snail-like trail down my beautiful wall, a

reminder,

I’ve tried to wash the slime off. I tried cutting it out of my hair, I cleared out

my clothes that were covered in oily residue. It still clings to me. The seat of

my pants still makes a  s q u e l c h  sound as it oozes out of the pockets,

holding me to my seat - immobile, stuck, helpless. 

There’s no glitter. My grief is a two-year old hunk of slime that has been

collecting debris. Sure, there is glitter in it. There is also dirt, crumbs, and

mystery hairs. Little reminders and pieces of my life that have clung to the

gooey, sticky mess. A life that has been forced to move on without you.

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Sarah Duggan is a full-time counsellor and part-time amateur writer. While she may want to live in the forest with nothing but crafting supplies, she lives in Orangeville, Ontario with her fiancé and one very spoiled black cat. 

@sarduggs