The question is always a threat to me, something I try and avoid at all costs at this point of my life. I look at the person who undoubtedly has a better answer and flat-line
“I’m a cocktail waitress.”
“Oh! Well… you must make good money!”
“Yeah. At the expense of my soul.”
Success – the word boils my tongue. It’s a relative term and one I don’t yet understand. Is it a mansion overlooking a coast? Is it a 9-5 with a steady salary? Is it simply being happy? Who can say? The woman with a FUPA checking out your Walmart purchase of toothpaste, Trojans and hair conditioner – she may think she’s successful. The guy who handed you the fast food bag of shame at 3:30 a.m., he may think he’s Russell Simmons. Of course, you don’t think that way. You look at them and think, “ha, fuck your life,” (even though you’re buying a triple stacked Big Mac at 4 a.m.). But they don’t care about your judgment. They have their own opinion and that’s what counts.
What is success? Something we all crave, but as far as phrases and sentences to comprise this enigma, I’m at a loss. I certainly don’t know it when I’m peddling martinis and taking other people’s money. The absence is making me anxious; I want him, that tasty little morsel of a descriptor. In haste, I set out to find him with an open appeal, submitting to something he surely must read – the “Wanted” ads.
“Female Seeking Success: 23-year-old blonde, above-average looking woman seeking success. Is willing to compromise morality, reality, principle, body, words and life for. Open to role play, context changes and anything not involving the sale of food or alcohol.”
I tried looking back, browsing the things I’ve been proud of before to find a key to his heart:
Sleeping with really, really good looking men
Evading the law on many, many occasions
Getting compliments on my ass
Learning to shoot pool like a man
Being able to drink tequila like a man
Having really thick, shiny hair
Somehow, these didn’t fit any of his locks. I curled my hair and went chain smoking through my city streets, hoping success would manifest and tell me the secrets he was hoarding.
Yet, something else was appearing – a thought process, a string of understanding for the path I wanted to build. I began to see success as something not needing to be fully uncovered, but only outlined so I could fill it with actions. A set of goals that could make me confidently say, “This is who I am, this is what I do and I am glad for it.”
That’s what the FUPA lady at Walmart would do.
“I’m Glenda, I’ll be checking out your groceries, hitting the KFC afterwards and I don’t give two fucks what you think about it ‘cause I’m content.”
The revelation inspired me. I hopped a bus to the nearest Walmart to purchase a $3.95 bottle of wine. When I got to the counter, the clerk was a frumpy woman with frazzled gray hair and chipped fake nails. I scanned her name card – Marge.
“Hey, Marge,” I started as she looked at me quizzically, “Thank you.”
“No, not for swiping my wine with nimble hands and grace, which you are doing,” I put my hand on her arm, stopping it in action, “But for the inspiration. It’s you! You’ve made me realize – success is what I make of it! Nothing else!”
Marge looked frightened, but under her raised eyebrow, I saw the glimmer of a smirk and a knowing eye twinkle.
“… Would you like a receipt?”
“No, no, I don’t need a piece of paper to tell me what I’ve gotten here today.”
prguitarman
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
