I canâ€™t fill out a form in order.
I canâ€™t keep straight in my mind the New Jersey Turnpike and the Garden State Parkway, or Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro.
I canâ€™t think of any song while any other music is playing.
I canâ€™t feel any biological anything ticking.
I canâ€™t stop feeling homesick for someplace I lived for only four months, six years and two months ago today.
I canâ€™t stick to the speed limit.
I canâ€™t get too much sleep. Nor can I always stay awake.
I canâ€™t stop wanting to get away.
I canâ€™t tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue.
I can’t always sit still.
I can’t do a backbend anymore. (At present.)
I canâ€™t watch â€œExtreme Makeover: Home Editionâ€ without crying.
I can’t always stop life from being a little too much for me.
I can scuba dive â€“ at least a little bit, in a pool, anyway.
I can run a mile.
I can read French (sort of), decline in Latin, and fingerspell the alphabet in American Sign Language.
I can pack an overnight bag all too well.
I can always get what I want. And what I need. To hell with the Rolling Stones.
I can find something good in just about everything and everyone.
I can find my passport at a momentâ€™s notice.
I can find anything online.
I can convince most people of most things.
I can always be up for a movie.
I can organize better than anybody I’ve ever met.
I can oil paint.
I can make hospital corners.
I can roundhouse kick like nobody’s business.
I can sometimes cry for not much reason.
I can write a lovely letter.
I can happily make lists for ever.
No related posts.