Here's the thing. You can. I can. We can. Anything you want you CAN get, do or achieve. Sounds schmaltzy? Fine. It's schmaltzy. Sue me. Stop reading. Piss off. Go back the Wastelands of Can't. I'll mourn for you, but not for long, because it's a choice. Can't is a choice. Are we clear?
Perhaps I sound a tad peeved. I am. Though, conversely, I'm also amused, saddened, let down, inspired and challenged. The can'ts have been blowing past rapid-fire lately. And as I duck and weave to dodge them I find myself more and more interested in proving the can'tsers wrong.
Can'tsers. Cancers. Huh. Sorry, I can't leave that alone. It's too perfect. Because once in your system, the can'ts grow and multiply and lay siege on the best parts of you, quashing joy, tainting love, clipping inspiration off at the knees. You let one can't sashay in and there are a whole host of them just waiting for their chance at the all-you-can-eat buffet of YOU. By the end of the feast, there are a bunch of fat, bloated, sweaty can'ts belching and sleepy hanging out in your living room and you're what's left of the roast chicken.
I want you to be a kickin' chicken. A kick ass chicken. A bare-knuckle, prize fighting chicken. And I want to be one, too.
No more can'ts. They're counterproductive to everything good, holy and fun on this planet.
Cans (Cansers!) grow just as fast as can'ts. You just gotta choose the CAN, man! When you do, I'll be behind you 100%. You CAN go back to school. You CAN start your own business. You CAN climb Mt. Everest. You CAN find the love of your life. You CAN make amends with your mother. You CAN figure out what you want to be when you grow up. You CAN join the circus, if you so choose. You just have to decide you CAN. Baby, steps, baby. Make that one little phone call. Swing by and just pick up the application. Pop by the bookstore and buy The Artist's Way. Go online and simply peruse some Web sites. The next step won't be much harder than that. The step after that will simply be the step after, no more no less. And you'll take it, too and it won't be as hard as you think. I promise.
Look, I'm no expert. I think some are born the can-do way and others are born the do what? way. I was born do what? and I battle my can'ts daily. But it's cold in that there Cave of Can't waiting for the big brown bear that never comes, or the storm that never strikes or the imagined posse of murdering highwaymen with mayhem on their minds. And boring. God, it's boring.
Live it up, Chicken Little. Do the can-can instead! Can't never done you no favors, so kick it with your kickin' chicken feet to the refuse-clogged street. Where it belongs.