458 people who never believed in me signed an apology letter. They admitted they had underestimated me. Most felt I would wind up in janitorial work or become a squeegee guy at an intersection.
But I became a renowned flash fiction master, in the process, hob nobbing with the rich and famous, a man who makes entrances to charity balls and VIP parties with women named Danielle, Veronica, and Monique on his arm.
They were not prepared for my success. As a child I threw up and whined. As a kid I was always last in potato sack races. My adolescence consisted of big guys giving me atomic wedgies. In college, I joined a fraternity and none of the guys would exchange the secret handshakes with me. As an adult, I bounced from job to job--door knob installer, curtain rod measure person, ball bearing salesman, navel lint remover, etc.
One day I saw a group of odd looking people enter the library. I followed them into a room. Writers.
I burst into tears. I'm so lonely, I sobbed. Can I join you?
May I join you, the leader corrected me.
The rest is history.
I folded the apology letter and stuffed it beneath my insulated underwear. Too little, too late.
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