The Rant of a Late Bloomer

THIS IS THE BEGINNING and end of my story. Lying on my deathbed at the overripe age of 110, surrounded by weeping family members, I suddenly open my eyes and exclaim, “Wait a minute! I know what I want to be when I grow up!” Clutching my chest, like milk left in the fridge too long, I reach my expiry date.

THE FAMILY all nodded to each other in agreement. It was a well known fact that Wendy was a Late Bloomer.