Today I made myself bulgogi chicken and bean sprout salad for the first time

I've been cooking a lot more lately. My fridge, for once, is fully stocked with ingredients. There's still a few "snack" items (trader joe's frozen dumplings, baby carrots with a fatty dip from kroger) and a couple bottles of wine, but most of it is produce and tupperware containers of meals I've already made. It feels resplendent. Graceful in a self-sufficient way. When I manage to impress myself like this, I really get so excited to one day be a mother. I hope that the people I care for view me like this. Like someone who always has enough in her fridge. Who just needs 20 minutes and some salt to blow you away with a fresh meal. There is so much romance in making food for another person. I can't get over it.

 If I manage to drink the rest of my water bottle and do my night routine, I think I'll have done my first PERFECT day. All daily goals met. Multiple meals made at home. Mushi cared for. She's cuddling up to me right now. Whenever I sit on my laptop on the couch she insists on coming to look at what I'm doing. Even though she can't read.

 Earlier today, I was cutting out scraps of color and texture from magazines to feed my collage material pile. Later, I went to trader joe's. While I was gone, Mushi got ahold of the magazine I left on the couch and shredded it to bits. With my shreds on the table and hers on the ground, it almost looked like she had tried to imitate me. Like a little kid trying to be like their parent. I love her so much.

 I start my new job in a few days. My laptop and monitors and who knows what else all came in the mail today. Big boxes piled neck-high next to my front door. I feel a little bad for the UPS man that had to carry it past the awkward steps of our courtyard. At least there wasn't a work crew out on the driveway today. If there had been, who knows if I would have ever gotten this delivery.

 I'm a bit nervous. I keep catching myself worrying about what I'm going to wear. A silly thing to worry about. But it's like my "safe" worry. I can keep myself occupied turning that thought over in my mind endlessly. And that distracts me from worrying about more troubling matters. Like the fact that I feel really insecure about my writing still. And the fact that I still struggle with motivation and discipline and general executive function on most days. And the fact that I have forgotten everything I once knew about civil procedure and evidence. The superficial, cosmetic worry of "what will I wear" keeps those bigger issues at bay. Or at least allows me to pretend they're not there, pushing up against the roof of my subconscious.

 One thing I think I'll be doing differently at this new job is going in with low expectations. I don't think this is my life's passion. But I do think this will allow me to really grow as an attorney. And I think it will allow me to have the flexibility in my schedule to pursue other interests. For once, my job isn't going to be the focal point of my identity. I'm interested to see how that goes. But I also, childishly, want to do so so so well at the same time. I want to be the BEST [BOSS’S NAME REDACTED] has ever seen. I want to be a prodigy. I want them to beg for me to stay when it's finally time for me to leave. I'm starting to sound like a movie villain.

 I've been watching more movies lately. And reading more. It's been nice. I think I need to keep a steady stream of stories (particularly audio books) going at all times so that I can maintain an ear for good prose and good dialogue. I think my skill in writing comes from that. Not any particular inclination to string words together on a page, but rather a tendency to conduct sentences that bounce and groove and jive when spoken out loud. Many thanks to being exposed to slam poetry youtube during middle school. I don't remember who showed me that video of the "Pretty" poem, but whoever it was, I owe them my life.

 Yet another thing I'm worried about is the fact that any time I type for a significant period of time (like right now. After 7 paragraphs of a diary entry) my right wrist starts hurting like crazy. Maybe I should preemptively start wearing wrist braces. Maybe I should do wrist strengthening exercises. Maybe. Maybe.