Most of you have read the scare-mail about the person whose kidneys were stolen
while he was passed out-well read on. While that was an "urban
legend" this one is not. It's happening everyday....
My thighs were stolen from me during the night of August 3rd a few years ago.
It was just that quick.
I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones
had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to
legs that had been wholly, if imperfectly, mine for years? Whose thighs were
these? What happened to mine?
I spent the entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at pools and
beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed. I became obsessed. I had
nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that turns to bumps in the night.
Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and
Sheer Energy pantyhose. Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck
again.
My buns were next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match
my new derriere (although badly attached at least three inches lower than the
original) to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my rear
complimented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would
stay in fashion.
It was 2 years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning while
fixing my hair, I watched, horrified but fascinated, as the flesh of my upper
arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting
scary. My body was being replaced, cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a
time.
Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up, noticed and
intangible, something like maturity. NO, I was being attacked, repeatedly and without
warning.
During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms... female arms. I
studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public or
flatten them too tightly against my body.
In private, I held them straight out and did endless circles that would have
tightened my real arms but did nothing for these new "Silly-Putty"
caricatures.
In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to
me next? My eyes began to remind people that they needed a new pair of Hush
Puppies. My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it
now reminded me of.
That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical
profession by myself. Women of America,
wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really "plastic" those
surgeons are using. You know where they're getting those replacement parts,
don't you?
