Is Success Having a Stranger Tattoo Something I Wrote on His Body?

My Thanksgiving break was spent ​performing comedy in San Francisco, for mostly amazing crowds, and even getting paid to do it. By "getting paid" I mean I was given enough cash to spend immediately on whiskey, and gas for the drive home. However, even this small amount of compensation is rare, so I was happy to have it. And, after staying on a mattress in the living room of a friend's apartment for close to a week, I was excited to come back home. To my mattress in the living room of my apartment that I share with three other wall-privileged individuals.

As fun as performing non-stop was, it felt good to be back. Until I remembered that rent was due the next day. I reviewed the numbers in my checking account. The math was depressingly simple: what I have now, minus rent, leaves me with $40 until my next paycheck—something I am used to dealing with, yet am sick of having to deal with. The knowledge that I would have to go through another round of the pasta-and-refried-beans-diet for the next two weeks crept into my brain and attacked whatever part of it was happy to be me. Moments later, I noticed a mention from a stranger on Twitter. He said he was getting something I wrote in one of my articles tattooed on his body.

I responded, asking him to clarify if he was serious or not. He soon assured me that he is indeed tattooing the words "I am a true 90s kid, meaning nostalgia is all I have left to live for in this world" on himself. A random sentence I spit out in  ​a thing I wrote about my relationship with my mother. Better to tattoo this sentence than the one I wrote about crying in a Panera. His reasoning for this tat is: "nostalgia rules" (true). He then added that my mom can finally be proud of me (we'll see about that). The excitement of me reading that, combined with the image of pinto bean stains in my microwave, threw my brain into a state of confusion. I stared at the wall (curtain) of my room (section of living room) and wondered: Is this success?

If I stopped everything now and took one of them new "cush" jobs created by marketing-obsessed start-ups, I'd probably be able to afford a room with walls. I could give this all up and turn to a life of running social media for some brand desperate to be relevant via memes, or write sponsored content for a shoe company that for some reason wants you to see a list of "totally epic fails." With a career like that, I might even get my own apartment. Not a studio, but a straight up one-bedroom. I'd finally have the kind of "fuck you" money I've always dreamed of. I could add avocado to my burger, and not care about the extra charge. I could buy full-priced clothing, and maybe even afford furniture. I could be the sort of person who thinks an Eames chair is something worth buying.

Can I make this be my new definition of success? Maybe at first, if I told myself that I'm not giving up on my "real future." I can still write and perform at night or on weekends. However, we all know this is bullshit. My mom, in an attempt to make me a lawyer, likes to tell me the story of some guy who wrote the screenplay for Finding Forrester while still working as a lawyer. I don't know if that story is true, but if it is, I do know that this sort of feat is rare. Over time, the dream dies or gets permanently delayed. I've seen enough mid-life crisis movies to know this. I don't want to run out of my office building in slow motion as Snow Patrol plays in the background, or be another white woman who has to find herself in India. If I go this route, I know for the rest of my life I'll constantly wonder, "What if?"

Right now, I don't see success as getting married, starting a family, or working a meaningless job solely for the money. It wouldn't be success, because I wouldn't be happy. Perhaps that's the real problem, thinking that the only way I can be satisfied with myself is if I get the huge book deal, or hit television show. It's funny, I used to think success was what I'm doing now. Performing, writing, and having three parody accounts made of me on Twitter. This is a dream come true for 20-year-old Alison. I have a large platform to talk about  ​armpit sex and a good enough following on social media to get me some real-ass haters (the fire that fuels me). If still living like a 20-year-old is the price to pay for such things, then why should I care? It could be worse. I currently may not have any walls, but at least I have a roof. The version of me that started this endeavor years ago would be jealous of me now, yet right now, I think I'm a failure—mainly because now my goals have become grander. On one hand, this is a good thing. It means I'm, like, more determined or some shit.

However, I'm left wondering: Am I giving myself more impossible goals, because I don't want to be happy now? Instead of redefining success, maybe I should redefine happiness. Maybe then I'll feel successful. Maybe.

Follow Alison Stevenson on ​Twitter.