"Success" is a relative term. For example, the most successful man I ever met went by the name Cactus Pete and lived in a rusted-out car propped up on cinder blocks in the woods. Many might consider Cactus Pete's life an objective failure. He didn't own pants, survived mostly off different forms of fungus and only ever wore an over-weathered trenchcoat that he tied at the waist like a bathrobe. Trapped inside Cactus Pete's body for a single day, most would likely find the nearest cliff and fling themselves off before noon.

But Cactus Pete is, he admitted one night while deeply-inebriated by dangerous mushroom wine, an escaped convict. As a young man he fell in love with the Secret King of Atlanta's daughter, marrying her in secret ceremony. They evaded capture by escaping into the sea aboard a raft of tied-together milk jugs, living off seabirds and highly-endangered turtles for months. Unfortunately, Cactus Pete is a poor navigator, and they ended up coming ashore on the exact stretch of beach from whence they'd escaped.

Pete was imprisoned for years in the prison under the Connie's Nail Salon in Athens, GA. It took him two whole years to shave away at the lock using the discarded, plastic nail files and escape again, this time into the woods behind my house. Cactus Pete tried, and Cactus Pete failed. But does that make Cactus Pete a failure?