I stutter at thresholds.
Pick your “halt gracelessly” verb, and I’m there.
I will kit out for a complete adventure and then camp out at the door. Terrified, I be, of taking that first step to another failure.
I despise that about myself and the worrywart of a gremlin that is my brain.
Currently, I’m shuffling my feet at the “Paint for Profit” doorway.
What if I can’t do what I think I can?
What if I flop for the thousandth time in my ridiculous life?
I know. I know. I’m adept at bombing at most everything I do, so why would one more cock-up matter?
I attach hope to everything.
Fool or champion?
What the heck kind of creature am I?