You wake up in a room that looks more or less like you room, with the same layout, arrangement of furniture, and general appearance, but details have been changed to give it more of a feminine feel... Like the vanity mirror that has replaced your unisex work desk, and the Sia posters and Vogue magazine cut-outs pinned to the walls, and a shift from brown-and-dark-green colors to deep-purple-and-sky-blue.
There's a knock on your door. "Michelle?" your sister calls out. "You up yet? You promised to go with me to the mall!"
"Michelle?" you think. "Did she forget how to pronounce my name?"
"Hold on a minute!" you yell, which is when it hits you that something terrible has happened. "Huh?" you say, feeling the foreign vibrations of your vocal chords. You put a finger to your throat. No Adam's apple. "Uh oh," you think.
You jump out of bed, unprepared for the effects of gravity on your hefty bosom, constrained (in the loosest sense of the word) by a purple, sequin-patterned tank top. The door opens as you're just getting your bearings, and you see your sister between the long blonde strands of your hair. Mostly, you're distracted by everything from your neck down: the denim short shorts, the unmarred flesh of your athlete's legs, the aforementioned bosom which impulse leads you to clutch violently, giving a tight squeeze. You flinch. You squeeze your legs together and feel nothing in between them.
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