Ten Things I Cannot Do: An Excruciatingly Honest Catalog of Personal Inadequacy

Ride a bicycle. Unless it’s a stationary or “non-moving” bike, which I’m told doesn’t count.
Digest lactose. This does not, however, stop me from drinking raw, unpasteurized milk by the gallon, much to the chagrin of my close friends and family (who only exist theoretically, anyway).
Figure out where that smell is coming from. God, that smell; it’s horrible.
Please a human female, sexually.
Please a non-human female, non-sexually. (My dog hates me!)
Go to a department store without glancing at the banana hammock section with simultaneous disgust and longing.
Go ten minutes without contemplating suicide. Man, I wish I were dead. Ha! There I go again.
Urinate with the lights on. I...I just don’t like to, okay?
Improve my backhand. My girlfriend, however, has been happy about this particular development! Ha, ha, ha! Just kidding. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Also I can’t play tennis for shit.
Escape this mental prison built of my own construction. Also: escape actual prison — probably built of concrete and government contractors or something.