My inner critic’s name is Frank. He sounds like the boys from school who used to tease me for singing all the time. He looks like my ex-boyfriend’s grumpy old chihuahua with his tongue perpetually stuck out. Since I was a young child, he’s whispered in my ear, “You suck,” “You’re too fat to swim at the beach,” and “Who the hell do you think you are trying to sing on stage?” The voice tells me these stories to make me feel small.
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