Kiss her. Slowly, take your time, there’s no place you’d rather be. Kiss her but not like you’re waiting for something else, like your hands beneath her shirt or her skirt or tangled up in her bra straps. Nothing like that. Kiss her like you’ve forgotten any other mouth that your mouth has ever touched. Kiss her with a curious childish delight. Laugh into her mouth, inhale her sighs. Kiss her until she moans. Kiss her with her face in your hands. Or your hands in her hair. Or pulling her closer at the waist. Kiss her like you want to take her dancing. Like you want to spin her into an open arena and watch her look at you like you’re the brightest thing she’s ever seen. Kiss her like she’s the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. Take your time. Kiss her like the first and only piece of chocolate you’re ever going to taste. Kiss her until she forgets how to count. Kiss her stupid. Kiss her silent. Come away, ask her what 2+2 is and listen to her say your name in answer.
You cannot let a fear of failure, or a fear of comparison, or a fear of judgment stop you from doing what’s going to make you great. You cannot succeed without this risk of failure, you cannot have a voice without the risk of criticism, and you cannot love without the risk of loss. You must go out and you must take these risks. Everything I’m truly proud of in this life has been a terrifying prospect to me: from my first play, to hosting Saturday Night Live, to getting married, to being a father, to speaking to you today. None of it comes easy. And people will tell you to do what makes you happy, but a lot of this has been hard work; and I’m not always happy: and I don’t think you should do what makes you happy, I think you should do what makes you great. Do what’s uncomfortable, and scary, and hard but pays off in the long run. Be willing to fail, let yourself fail. Fail in the way — in the place — where you would want to fail. Fail, pick yourself up, and fail again … You do not have to be fearless. Just don’t let fear stop you.