I am an artist in need of some suffering

The fact is, I don't have any useful skills.
I can cook, I suppose, but I cannot make Jello. Or fudge. Both turn out gloopy no matter how I try to change up the recipe or follow it to the letter.
I can't assemble things. I once tried to put together a desk from Ikea and I thought I was successful at it. Then the cat jumped on it and it folded like a deck of cards.
I can't sew. I can't paint. I can't sing. I can't play an instrument.
I tried to crochet, but the thing look like gum when you take it out of your mouth and stretch it out. The holes were not at all consistent. My aunt said I didn't have the right tension. My mother said it was because I was left handed.
I can't play sports. When I tried to play powder puff football in university, I got a black eye. I tried to run and I got plantar fasciitis. I tried to play golf and hit some old codger in the head. On a parallel green.
Ever since I was a little kid, I wanted to be good at something but I never was. Couldn't make it into the choir even after hours practising. Couldn't get past a C in art class. Couldn't remember the lines in the school play.
Couldn't learn a second language because my mind wandered.
That's why I became I writer.
Perhaps it was God's plan.
I was an artist in need of some suffering.

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