I think I reblog this every time it comes up. I make paper stars and sometimes it does make me feel better
i never knew how to make paper stars, so i looked up for tutorials on youtube.
when i’m lonenly, which is translated to most of the time, i make them; green, yellow, pink, blue, white, purple.
and, believe me, it’s kind of a relief to make them. not only for the colors and cute shape, but also for the fact that the time i spend makin them i am entertained and don’t have to think about my loneliness anymore.
i learnt how to make them like two months ago, by the way. and i have made over 300.
it’s awesome.
I’ve been wanting to see this story again.
This is for everyone. Guys, girls, both, neither, and more.
When you’re upset, make a star. When you’re stressed, make a star. I make them in school when the teacher yells at our class for being lazy or dumb. I make them at home when I’m in my room, wishing someone would notice my feelings and give me comfort. I’ve always made them with whatever I had around, and write a number on each and every one because its therapeutic. I can see how far I’ve come and how many times I haven’t given up.
Right now I’m at around four-hundred and seventy, and it really puts everything into a perspective.
Thats four hundred and seventy times that I could’ve given up. I’ve gotten pretty close on some of them – scarily close, but every one of those stars is a reminder to keep pushing forward, because I wake up every day and on my dresser is a box full of stars, and when I’m happy I think of how far I’ve come.
I think this idea should be passed around as much as possible. Its calming and distracting from and panic I feel. It gives me something methodical to do: Fold here. Fold there. Crease that line. There you go, Create. Produce. Make something solid and focus on it. Make another if you need to. Write a number. Fill up the jar, box, drawer.
And when you’re breaking and feel everything crashing down, you can look at your stars and think:
“See? I made it through alright. I can give it another go.”
“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.
A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.
I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,
Delicious Fish 