Success, by definition, is a favorable or desired outcome. To succeed is to accomplish something, to achieve something. To make ones self worthwhile.



I am quite successful in the fine art of failure.



At an age where most of my peers have degrees, jobs, and families, it goes without saying they have long since left the nest. I, however, am living at home. With my mother. I have a minimum-wage part-time job I dislike, I dropped out of college my junior year, and I have a dog whom on most occasions is my closest friend.



I would chew off my own arm to go back in time. I laugh it off, play it off, calling myself, "a professional drop-out," and making empty promises to go back when "I know what I want to do with my life."



I am not a risk taker.

I want to lie on our backs and stare at the infinite beyond, watching stars glitter and planets shine. I want to feel the grass at my toes, your arm beneath my head; the heat from your body in contrast to the night air. We'd follow sattelites and airplanes, try to guess where they're both going.