I hate the sound of my voice. To be more precise, it isn’t my voice. I haven’t said a word in over three years. All that sound coming out of my mouth belongs to a 47-year-old man named Foster from Florida who died in an alligator farm accident, if you can believe what he says which I have no reason not to. I’m not exactly sure how his words ended up in my throat, maybe from that fancy restaurant that served exotic meats, like ostrich and alligator, or something to do with the alignment of the planets pulling his ghost along one night and depositing it here inside me. Whatever, I’m just glad that Foster is a congenial fellow without too many uncomfortable biases, except for that propensity to spew profanity whenever I’m in the presence of Chihuahuas. As long as I avoid dog parks, obedience schools, and the like, I’m usually okay.