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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 &

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