I can’t write. I can barely string two sentences together coherently.
I can’t paint, or draw, or garden.
I can’t run. Can’t motivate myself to exercise.
I love my children, but I can’t create a scrapbook or journal or photo album for them.
I can’t state an opinion without assuming it will be shot down. My brain can’t wrap itself around an argument.
I have no idea how to program most electronics, nor any desire to learn, and leave it to Shane.
I can’t do anything with my hair except keep it clean and neat.
I can’t apply eyeshadow.
I read other people’s stories, but cannot create my own.