My Tragic Failing

It is occasionally frustrating to be reminded that I will never be a Dramatic Hero. I can manage comic hero, and I think perhaps someday I might be able to be a tragic hero, if the appropriately angst-laden circumstances were to befall me. And of course I an eminently suited to be a plucky sidekick lass. Half of my problems in life, I believe, stem from an overdose of pluck. But I'm just not dramatic hero material. My hair isn't stylish enough, my choice of weapons is far too ludicrous, and my villains just aren't as well-written as they'd need to be. But even if I were able to overcome all of these obstacles, there's one insurmountable flaw.

Heroes don't get the hiccups.

A dramatic hero can suffer all sorts of infirmities both emotional and mental. They can be wounded, even in undignified manners - wounds are almost always dramatic. They can even have their own personal tragic weaknesses. But hiccups are not only unheroic, they actively undermine heroism. James Bond never gets the hiccups. Neither does Emma Peel. Or, if she did, they would be discreet little things. No noise, no painfully cute little full-body bounces. She leaves that to her plucky sidekick, I'm sure.

It's just not fair. My body is betraying my soul's dramatic needs....