Do you know who late bloomers are?
Late bloomers are people who’ve lived almost their entire lives being told that they’re worth nothing. Late bloomers, more often than not, sleep through their insecurities not because they’re lazy but because they’re too tired of hearing how useless they are. Late bloomers are almost always highly messed up creatures who know their lives will never ever amount to anything worth breathing for. Ever. Late bloomers, somewhere way deep down, inside a little heart that they’ve managed to keep beating, wonder if they too can have dreams. But come on, who are we kidding? Late bloomers are the kind of people who in order to protect themselves from these so- called norms of life and activities they’re not good at, watch television all day and Google random inspirational quotes pretending to find something deep and revelational in them; which I suppose makes them assume will get them to become somebody the world would actually give a damn about.
It’s pretty stupid, how they live their lives and how they manage to keep breathing. It’s also very hard. Because at the end of the day they weirdly manage to survive on hope. Mere hope.
In spite of everything, late bloomers finally get to have their share of nice stuff once they’ve passed a certain stage. They too shall bloom one day, satiating the world’s hunger for miracles. All it takes is a little time and patience. Just a little. That’s what they say at least.
I, on the other hand, am what you’d call an “overdue bloomer”. Totally beyond the phase of my life where I can still pretend to wait for a revelation. I’m twenty-four and still have no idea what it is that I’m alive for. But good for me, I had a great-grandfather who left behind a fortune huge enough to feed our family for at least the next twelve decades, give or take two. And somehow that money has mostly been left untouched for all these years until I came along. Funny how he died ages ago and still managed to predict how useless I’d turn out to be.
To give you a brief summary of what it is that I do all day, I can start by explaining that I do not work. Why would I? I don’t earn any money and don’t have any interest to do so ever in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m a spendthrift. Though I have millions in my bank account I hardly use anything at all. In fact, it’ll be more appropriate to consider me a cheapskate. I get what you’re thinking. But I don’t understand me either.
I dropped out of college the same month I stepped into one. And by the end of the same week, I found myself a rustic apartment, which hardly qualifies to be inhabitable by human beings, in the middle of a city that’s way too developed for someone like me. I am not a traveler, I don’t paint or write or do anything most creative jobless people do. I can’t finish a list of to–do things that my next–to–best–friend forced me to make. I don’t shut my mouth when told to and don’t talk when required to. I can’t clean stuff, but duh, I can’t even make a good mess of stuff. I also sort of go around telling people “I hate people” and that I’m not a big fan of planet Earth, constantly pretending like I’d move to Neptune someday. I also usually just tend to creep the shit out of strangers, spending most my time hanging out with homeless people and staring at weird sceneries. I’ve never said anything that makes any sense and can’t possibly ever imagine doing so in the future, in case I’ve got one.
So, overall what I’m trying to say is — I’m a total jerk who shouldn’t exactly exist, but still does due to some weird, unprecedented, overwhelmingly embarrassing, cosmic miscalculation.
I know. I pity me too.