And that’s when it it hit me.
In that split second, I knew the sad, overwhelmingly obvious, now-clear-as-a-bell-why-listen-to-it-chime irrefutable truth.
I was never going to be the person I’d dreamed I would be.
I was never going to be the household name, the adored personality, the handsome-yet-so-down-to-earth celebrity I had always known I would become. That boy who was almost voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ at the year 12 Formal (beaten only by that do-goody-goody school-captain, Chris Timewell) was never going to live up to his much-remarked ‘potential’.
There would be no interviews, no adoring crowd, no fanboys or groupies, clamouring sweatily around me in a pubescent swarm, deleriously delighted just to be in my witty, profound, yet caustically irreverent company.
This was actually as good as it was ever going to get. Some shitty little 150-word story on some website called Redbubble.
I sighed and pressed the enter key.