No, they sure don't. They just see a talking orange and think, "Oh, a talking orange." And they're absolutely right. But they don't understand what's going on with me. They don't care. They just see me as a particularly attractive fruit that has the novel ability to keep up a conversation. Do you know how hard it is to get ready each morning? I literally have to roll out of bed each morning, and I always get caught in the blankets. Then I have to shower. I spent the better part of three months building a ramp for me to get over the rim of the tub with. And don't get me started on turning that damn faucet. My entire morning is like this. All these things you take for granted, doorknobs, microwaves, toothbrushes, computer keyboards, every single one of these things require hands. Breakfast is always a nightmare. No matter what I say, someone always buys orange juice. Can you imagine working up an appetite when the mangled remains of mote than ten of your kind are suspended in a jug? Damn right you can't. And of course, the most agonizing downside to being an orange: I can't fap. Really imagine that. Try to imagine not fapping. Ever. Yeah. With all this stress, it's no wonder I'm only seven ounces.