Citrus-stained hands

I have a list of things I want to write about for the blog. I add to it when I think of things, then as I write I remove those things. It's always growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. It feels good to add, it feels good to subtract. It makes me feel like my mind is breathing, in and out, in and out.

I had a sad thought yesterday. I was thinking about friends, friendship. My sad thought was, What a Bust. What a Total Bust. All those boats that were waiting so eagerly at the dock have gone. People are already in their groups, people are content. And wouldn't I be?

Senior year, three months left, there's not enough time to make any lasting friendships. I'm going to end my Stanford career with no lifelong friends. It's over. Done with. Sayonara. Get over it.

Like I said a while back, I'm working on not saying "but." As in, "I was sad yesterday about friendships, but I'm going to ride this bitch until the end so now everything is All Good." That's not the way. It devalues the sadness I felt. That sadness was and is real. The point is—that's okay, that's Good, feeling things is good. So, instead, I'll say:

"I was sad yesterday about my lack of true friends and how I will probably leave here with few if any lifelong connections and, you know what? I'm still going to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off."

Now that's what I like to call a Statement.

How does one ride this bitch until the wheels fall off? Ha! I have to laugh at that sentence. Ahem. How does one? Well, I think I do it by still trying as hard as I can to make friends. Yeah, it may blow up in my face. Yeah, I may get rejected. In fact, I probably will—because think about it. Me and Cora and Emily and Jack. We're close as close could be. Would we just add some random guy to our core group, this thing we've worked on for years, this intricately balance organism, on a whim? Hell no. So I get it. I understand that. And I'm still going to try.

I'm going to put myself Out There. I have already—I wrote an open and honest letter to a friend because I wanted to put myself Out There, and that was a Very Good Thing, and it made me feel Good to write it. I'm asking lots of people to hang out with me and most of the time it blows up in my face. You know? The best piece of advice, the best saying Dad ever instilled in me, was the mantra—Fuck It. Really, truly—Fuck It. Not in a bad way, not in a way that washes your hands of life—in a way that relieves the pressure, in a way that let's you off the hook. You tried. It didn't work. Fuck it. Try again.

Above all, I want citrus-stained hands. I want to eat bitter fruit and sour fruit and sweet fruit and fruit that's too green and fruit that's too brown and I want to eat spotted fruit, and I want to eat it all and get sick and eat it all and feel good and when I leave this place be able to say with wide eyes, "Now wasn't that something."