I hate when my throat is scratchy and raspy, yet I don’t sound like Master Chief or Megatron or Marcus Fenix. It seems like such a waste of T-cells. For the last week, my voice has hovered at the edge of the “cartoon supervillain” octave that would worsen whenever I got dehydrated. By the end of the day, unless I shotgun a sports drink, I end up sounding like Dr. Claw. It’s even more apparent when I randomly threaten Inspector Gadget, but oh, boy, he’ll get what’s coming to him. I’ll get him one of these days.
I’ve also been constrained from giving compliments to people. I tried to say, “I like your SpongeBob backpack.” only for it to come out as the most terrifying thing to say to a short girl on a dark campus in the dead of night. I probably should have waited for her to see me first.
