How To Make Confetti Yay Decorations For Parties?

Christmas was just around the corner, and the head of the company asked us to choose between a bonus and a Christmas gift box for chocolate. I was not much of a sweets person, so I was the first to vote for the bonus. The intern collecting the votes immediately called me out by name in the team chat. "Ella, Christmas is supposed to be about the holiday spirit. Isn't choosing the bonus a bit materialistic?" Even the department manager tagged me. "Ella, the company values team spirit more than anything." In the end, everyone else picked the gift boxes. I was the only one who did not. When the Christmas party arrived, the intern had bought gift boxes filled entirely with nut chocolate. She knew I was allergic to nuts, yet she forced me to try some in front of everyone to show my team spirit. "Ella, this was bought with everyone's bonus money. You cannot just refuse, can you?" The next moment, I was struggling to breathe and a rash spread across my body. The intern looked at me with pure disgust. "Seriously, Ella, do you have to ruin the mood when everyone else is having fun?" I frantically searched my bag for my allergy medicine, but all I could find were a few pieces of chocolate. Seeing me in such a state, the intern laughed. "Medicine is only one part of it. You need more sweets anyway. I swapped your medicine for the chocolate in the gift box." My breathing was getting worse by the second. I quickly grabbed my phone and texted the CEO. [Dad, I'm having an allergic reaction. I'm at the…]

During the award ceremony at our annual dinner, my boss, Hank Reid, suddenly announced an impromptu addition to the agenda. “Annual department competition! The department that ranked last has to come up and receive a little award of motivation!” The screen lit up. They scrolled through all the departments’ results. The sales department got first place, the operations department got second place, and the marketing department got third place. However, there was nothing from the administration department. That was because the administration department did not have KPIs. Hank smiled at us. “Let’s welcome our colleagues from the administration department to come up and receive their awards!” Two of my colleagues carried a whole basket of brooms onto the stage. Everyone was laughing. “You should sweep away your bad luck from last year. Let’s hope you won’t get last place again next year!” Hank personally passed the brooms to all of us. Cameras flashed as people took photos of us with their phones. The sales department was laughing the loudest. “Finally, the administration department has some recognition!”

On the night of my fifth wedding anniversary with Sebastian Gray, he lit up the entire city with fireworks for me. All our friends kept saying what a wonderful man he was—so loving, so romantic. The kind of husband every woman dreams of. At the grand finale, the fireworks burst into words that lit up the night sky: Happy Birthday, Jen. Jennifer Kingsley was Sebastian's first love, his ideal woman, the one who had always lingered in his heart. Sebastian looked at me, his expression almost sheepish. "Ah, it's Jen's birthday too. They must have mixed up the fireworks." That night, Jennifer posted on her social media: "Men are boys till the day they die, always fumbling their way through romance." She added a picture of the fireworks, along with a photo of her and Sebastian standing close under the dazzling display. I liked her post and left a comment: "From school to altar—what a touching love story. When's the wedding?"

It's Grandpa's birthday banquet, and yet my fiancee is working late again, missing her one chance to meet the family. My brother and his wife, still bitter about me taking the project from them, don't waste the opening. "What good is all his money when his fiancee can't even show up on a day this important? She clearly doesn't take him seriously." "That's why Archer's the smart one. He landed himself Claire Donovan, of all people. Even her throwaway gifts start at seven figures." I'm about to fire back when the familiar name stops me cold. My eyes lock onto the bracelet of dark wooden beads the butler carries in. It's identical to the one my fiancee just spent a fortune on a few days ago. My gaze turns to ice as I snatch the bracelet from his hands. "Return this. Tell them it's a fake, and Grandpa's furious. And didn't you want to meet my fiancee? She's walking through that door right now."

On our wedding anniversary, I canceled all my meetings and made a reservation at a restaurant. That evening, my wife, the renowned investigative journalist Amaya Shaw, called me. “Efim, I’m sorry! I just received a tip from a source. It’s urgent. “It involves inside information about a well-known company. I have to go verify it immediately!” But the next day, I saw that Javor Furey, the junior she had brought along, had posted a collage on his social media. The central photo showed Amaya wearing a childish birthday hat. Her head was pressed against Javor’s, as they made a wish together in front of a cake covered in candles. This was the caption. [Thanks, my dear Ms. Shaw! Even in the midst of her busy schedule chasing big stories, she remembered to give me this surprise birthday!] [Chasing big stories.] I stared at those three words. Then, I glanced at the limited-edition bag on our dining table. It was the one she had been raving about for half a year. It was the anniversary gift I had prepared for her. I felt absurd. I commented just two words under that post. [How touching.] Her call came in almost the second I hit send. She sounded furious. “Efim, do you have to be so sarcastic? “It’s just an anniversary. How old are you? Why are you still celebrating such childish anniversaries?” From our first year of marriage to the present, her “tip-offs from informants” and “special circumstances” always took precedence over our promises. This time, she could not even be bothered to come up with a plausible excuse. I did not say anything. I hung up and blocked her number. This marriage was over.

While I was bleeding heavily from my miscarriage, the hospital needed a family member to sign some documents urgently. The nurse frantically called my husband on my phone. After more than ten rejected calls, he finally answered, his voice a frustrated yell, "I'm busy! Don't bother me with these little things!" When we tried calling again, I realized he had blocked my number. Despite the pain, I forced myself to sit up and sign the papers. Tragically, our baby couldn't be saved. Later, I saw a viral video of my husband kissing his childhood sweetheart under fireworks. "It was just a silly joke," she said, "but he surprised me by lighting up the whole city with fireworks as a present!" Seeing their matching wedding rings, I wordlessly slipped off the simple ring I'd worn for five years and threw it in the bin. After coming so close to death, he was now insignificant to me.