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There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing

  • There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing I can't do. There's nothing I can't do. Whew. OK. Whew. Whew. Here goes

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  • nothing. Baby steps, I told myself. My memory palace was full of grand exhibits of crushing failure. But I kept picking myself and dusting myself off. Once I had done nothing, then

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  • I decided to invite local artists to display sculptures and crayon drawings in my memory palace. The exhibition was to be held next Saturday and tickets were

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  • on sale at Retirement homes and Crayola factories. My Memory Palace was decorated with subtle grays in early spongiform. The brut crayon artists of the east wings compulsive circle

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  • doodled on my Memory Palace, flooding me with false memories of red stick figure poodles. I hosed the Palace and transfered my real memories to a Memory Bank, where interest rates

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  • expanded. I could smell the red velvet cake on my sixth birthday and hear The Muppet Show playing in the other room. Unfortunately, I went bankrupt and had to foreclose my memories

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  • . Some government agency bought them and decided to condense them all into one Happy-Time commercial for the local kid's indoor playground. Or so I'm told. The freedom of having no

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  • school debt was like being a sovereign lord of a small Slavic village. Or so I'm told. Or so I'm told that I was told. So I took out a loan, a big fat loan full of chunky interest

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  • and tied a babushka around my head, a symbol of my highly educated shame. I never should have majored in philosophy. There was only 1 thing I could do: take out another loan &

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  • retrain as a dog groomer. 'The more I know about people, the more I love my dogs,' said someone, maybe a philosopher.

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