This morning, broken mother of one, Sharon Reynolds stared into the distance as she sat quietly in a corner of her small home in Baltimore, Maryland.

Sharon, age 43, told reporters that she had been married to a 40-year-old schlub named Carl for 13 years. Sharon reflected soberly that social pressures and anxieties about quickly fading youth inspired their marriage of convenience. The moderate sexual attraction and the hope sparked by building a home together quickly faded into monotony. The accidental pregnancy that cemented their unhappy marital fate blossomed into a resentful little twerp named Kylie who defines pre-teen mediocrity.

Sharon’s detached reflections this morning were inspired by the family laundry. Staring into the side-by-side baskets of her daughter and husband, she noticed a similar shimmer emanating from her husband’s sweaty button-downs and her daughter’s too tight, hot pink jorts. After years of worry and dull shame that the family had become irreparably distant, this made her wonder if they had a point of connection after all– the origins of this miasmic glitter. Suddenly looking straight into the eyes of this reporter, she exclaimed, “Maybe there is hope for this family. Maybe this is proof there can be common ground and collective happiness.”

Without hesitation, she got up, grabbed her purse, and ran outside to her car. Catching up to her before she skidded off, this reporter managed to get to her window to ask where she was going. “New York… Chicago… Who cares?? These bitches have more in common with each other than I do with either of them! I fucking hate glitter!”

After following up with Booty Call and Limited Too, The HindQuarterly determined that the glitter used by each organization had different origins.

Apparently the connection was only cosmetic.