I can't sleep yet.

I can't watch Sex & the City reruns anymore; I know how it turns out. They all live happily ever after and make a zillion lifetime dollars in residuals.

I can't be friends with a former lover. I don't know why it's so hard for me. Maybe it's hard for everyone, but the ones who say it's easy are lying. I also notice that the ones who say it's easy are (mostly) men.

The other thing about that is, I can't stop trying.

I can't bear to look at the ivory half moon hanging in my window right now. I have to turn my back on it, close the drapes. It reminds me of things I want and don't have.

I can't believe I'm writing a book. I can't believe it's taking me so bloody long to write it. I do believe it will be a ridiculous hit.

I can't think too much about my past. I miss it sometimes.

I can't express enough gratitude for my mother. And for the other women and men in my life who seem to care for me almost as much as she does.

I can't imagine being dead, but I know it's coming. Not soon, probably. Sometimes, not soon enough.

I can't wait to make my first movie. I don't care if it's a story I wrote or a story I love. I know I'm close. I can reach my fingers out in an impossible stretch and almost touch it. I know it will feel like mink and kisses.

I can't understand why I'm sleeping so badly. Theories abound, but listing them now would only reinforce the insomnia.

I can't do this anymore.

I can't not do this.