You set down the strange phone and examine your surroundings more closely.
You're in a cramped little living room, decorated with all sorts of girly knickknacks – decorative hearts ,angels, ribbons, and flowers on the shelves and across the walls. The room is so small, you could probably fit three of these living rooms in your master bedroom alone! It's all nice, tidy, and quite clean though.
Next, you look up and down at your body. Obviously, you already know you're a woman. Upon closer examination, you discover you're young – mid-twenties at the most. Quite shapely. You're currently dressed in nothing but a skimpy, peach negligee with black trim and a matching pair of panties that clings tightly to your nicely rounded hips and behind.
“Who am I?” you whisper in a softly feminine soprano voice. “And how did I become this crazy chick?”
A quick survey of the apartment yields a small, red leather purse. Inside, you discover a driver's license that identifies you as “Anderson, Sarah Marie” and pegs your age at 25. The woman in the photo is pretty, but meek looking with long, brown hair and deeply soulful, almond brown eyes. She looks quite attractive, but rather shy.
“I don't believe this is happening,” you mutter.
Then a brilliant thought crosses your mind.
“I'll just call myself,” you say, snapping your long, delicate fingers in delight. “This Sarah Anderson person is probably stuck in my body right now. She'll be eager to get back to her own, mousy dead-end life. I'll just call her up, order her to get her butt over here, and we'll figure out how to switch back.”
Padding on dainty, bare feet back to the phone, you dial up your old number and wait impatiently for Sarah to answer.
“Come on and answer, you crazy bitch!” you growl into the still-ringing phone.