I’m a senior, and I don’t have anything figured out. I don’t know how to keep myself from re-tearing ligaments sometimes, re-opening relationship wounds sometimes, needing therapists. I don’t know how to make people like me. I don’t know how to drink from a Nalgene without spilling liquid all over my lap. I don’t know how to spontaneously hug people when I feel inspired to. I don’t know how to deal with people who are crying. Heck, I don’t even really know how to deal with myself when I’m crying. I don’t know how to keep split ends at bay or keep track of my room key. I don’t know how to maintain a structured life, or a work-life balance, or a balanced diet.
You get the idea. And because I’m a senior, all this chaos is just hanging out in the open, seeing as everybody now seems to think themselves entitled to What Savannah Will Do With Her Life. Will it be a quirky assignment in Latin America? The fast track to a masters in philosophy? It’s like, you have this embarrassingly messy house, right?, and suddenly everyone’s got a copy of the key, piles in, and asks what’s for dinner.
Problem is, I don’t know what to serve them. Nobody wants a plate heaped with steaming imposter syndrome, a side salad of internships I haven’t applied for, a garnish of indecision, and, if we’re honest, a dessert of kind of terrified.
I’m a veteran of midwest crowd feeding techniques, though, so I know to call for a potluck.
Friends, this is a call to action. So come on over! Bring your half-baked dreams, your crispy crunchy hopes, your gelatinous desires. Bring some lovingly deep fried I-Don’t-Knows, some al dente ideas, a jar of intellectual curiosity, a sprig of we-can-do-better. This’ll be a damn good stone soup!
All ya’ll are invited! Stop on by. Just be sure to hang certainty in the hall closet when you walk in, and wipe any blind ambition off your boots in the entryway. I just unearthed insense of humor and the soundtrack to Youthful Idealism in the attic, so all you need to bring is a dish to pass.