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Holy fuck how do I have so much kitchen stuff? I mean to a certain extent it makes sense: we need to eat to survive, and (at least where I live) three balanced meals a day is stressed as a healthy structure. Only that doesn’t explain all of the brick-a-brack that seems to fill in every nook and cranny we have. How do I have two pizza cutters but no tongs?

I’m actually going to be completely honest with myself and admit that I don’t give a fuck about my bullshit kitchen problems. Am I keeping it to fulfill the word count? Of course. Do I treat these diary writes as a stream of conscious writing where whatever thought occurs I follow it? Most definitely. Do I think people will give a shit about kitchen junk? Maybe a select few of you out there, and to each their own. It’s not for me, though.

Moving is tiring. I am extremely grateful to have had this opportunity, and know that I am lucky to be here, but there’s a weird shift of energy that comes from upending your life and moving it somewhere else. You shed a lot of things that, somewhere along the way, you convinced yourself were irreplaceable. This is not limited to items. Feelings, memories, realities. They all shake off if they’re not secured well enough. It is as the cherry tree shivering in a breeze and sending unstuck petals floating to the ground.

In a long roundabout way I guess this is just me saying I threw away a big pan because I found we hadn’t cleaned it all weekend, and the fried rice we made had molded and began to puff an odious scent. Even thinking about it now I know I smelled some of it. Hope I don’t die because of that. How embarrassing.

Love you Marie, Amelia, mom, dad, sis, kitty

P.S. Amelia helped with the artwork for today!


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