Theft

[Guest guest]

MY THIGHS WERE STOLEN FROM ME!

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 (3 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, unnoticed 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 nor 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 Silly-Putty

caricatures.  In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my

T-shirts.  What could they do to me next?

In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed

particularly cruel to take just one).  And 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?  The next time you suspect someone has had

a face " lifted " , ~~look again.  Was it lifted from you?  Check out

those tummy tucks and buttocks raising.  Look familiar?  Are

those your eyelids on that movie star?  I think I finally may have

found my thighs.  I hope Crawford paid a really good price

for them.

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