"Bro to Barbie: A Reunion of Unlikely Friends"
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I grimaced as I paced the sterile hallway, coffee in one hand, Tiffany's purse slung awkwardly over my shoulder. A nurse had thrust it at me after the procedure, and as the flagging aroma of cheap perfume wafted up, I wondered if I'd need hand sanitizer for my nostrils.
The hospital room door creaked open as I peeked in. There on the bed, my lifelong best friend — now in the body of Tiffany — was beginning to stir. His new, unnaturally long lashes fluttered open like butterfly wings in a hurricane. His first words would be important, I thought, so I leaned in close, bracing for the profound.
“Why do I taste strawberries?” was not what I expected.
Before I could answer, he looked down. I watched as bewilderment melted into stunned realization. His eyes widened as if he'd seen the face of God, only it was attached to two enormous mountains. “Dude, these aren't mine!” Joey’s voice, now a few octaves higher, was hitting soprano notes Mariah Carey might envy.
I coughed, wrestling with the best way to break the news as gently as you break the surface tension on a trampoline. “Uh, Joey, meet Tiffany. Or, uh, her body, at least.” Joey's — Tiffany's? — fingers took an experimental feel of his—her?—new hair. “You had an accident. Long story short, this was the only option. But look at the bright side, you were always saying you wanted to get closer to women.”
Joey's — nope, definitely Tiffany's now — expression was somewhere between 'someone just stole my ice cream' and 'I'm about to invade Poland.'
Just then, Nurse Nancy popped her head in. “I see Sleeping Beauty is awake! Any discomfort?” she asked, blissfully unaware of the emotional earthquake she had sauntered into. Nurse Nancy's thumb hovered dangerously over the morphine button. Oh, how I wanted to slam that for Joey—not Tiffany.
“Discomfort? Lady, I’ve gone from being Joe the Bro to Barbie the Bent-out-of-Shape!” Tiffany's voice shot back at her.
Nancy just smiled serenely. "Hormonal mood swings are normal. Embrace the estrogen," she said as she floated back into the ether of her other duties. Ah, the blissful ignorance of the emotionally uninvested.
I figured it was time to step up as the best friend I had always been. “Look, dude—uh, dudette? We’ve been through thick and thin, pizza and puking. This is just another, albeit bizarre, chapter in our epic buddy-comedy.”
Tiffany shot me a look so lethal it could kill a cockroach at fifty paces. But then, something miraculous happened. Joe-Tiff sighed, a sound laden with resignation and acceptance. “Well, first things first, help me up. Let's see if these legs work like they used to.” Tiffany stretched and tentatively swung out of bed. The sight of the six-inch stilettos on the floor triggered memories of the time Joey sprained his ankle because he tried to jump off the garage roof, certain he'd fly.
“Whoa there, dangerous territory. Try these," I offered, holding up a pair of fluffy pink slippers. Tiffany groaned but obliged.
Once she was standing, albeit wobbly, I guided her to the nearby mirror. Tiffany stared at her reflection, moving from disbelief to flailing attempts to adjust her hospital gown to prevent an impromptu burlesque show.
“Damn, she's hot," Tiffany mumbled. Momentary regret flashed across his—well, her—face. “Shame I can't date myself. Mom always said I'm the only one who could put up with me.”
Something had to be done about this new dynamic in our friendship. "Hey Tiff, I guess our days of wrestling like wild animals on the apartment carpet are officially over."
Tiffany chuckled, a sound that was disturbingly melodic. “I can still tackle you, Bob. Now just with more... finesse."
As we gingerly exited the room, ready to face the world and all its oddities, I handed Tiffany her purse. “Here, you'll need this. And don’t freak out, but there’s a lot of pink in there. Try not to vomit.”
We walked into the future, best friends for life — one of us now with French-tipped nails and a killer hourglass figure. Some things change, but our friendship, our unbreakable bond, remained the constant nutty glue holding this absurd universe together. Even if one of us now had to learn the fine art of walking in heels before tossing around a football.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Me and my friend were best friends since elementary school. We had been friends up until college. That’s when the accident happened. He had been in an awfully car accident that had rendered his body useless. When the doctors told me about a brain swap procedure I told them to do it. I didn’t think his donor body would be a woman. Fortunately he ended up on the Body of someone the same age which was 23 but I’m not sure how I’m going to explain to him why he suddenly is a woman. His eyes flutter open on his hospital bed. He’s in for a real shock when he looks down to see tow giant breasts and a flowing blonde mane of hair. The donor named Tiffany was a curvy blonde the type of girl me and him would go gaga over back in high school. I'm not sure how were going to toss around the football anymore with that big giant rack and those French tipped nails or even have our ridiculous carpet wrestling matches back at our apartment. Everything's changed I hope we can still be the same guys we used to be even if he isn't a guy anymore.
Response: I grimaced as I paced the sterile hallway, coffee in one hand, Tiffany's purse slung awkwardly over my shoulder. A nurse had thrust it at me after the procedure, and as the flagging aroma of cheap perfume wafted up, I wondered if I'd need hand sanitizer for my nostrils. The hospital room door creaked open as I peeked in. There on the bed, my lifelong best friend — now in the body of Tiffany — was beginning to stir. His new, unnaturally long lashes fluttered open like butterfly wings in a hurricane. His first words would be important, I thought, so I leaned in close, bracing for the profound. “Why do I taste strawberries?” was not what I expected. Before I could answer, he looked down. I watched as bewilderment melted into stunned realization. His eyes widened as if he'd seen the face of God, only it was attached to two enormous mountains. “Dude, these aren't mine!” Joey’s voice, now a few octaves higher, was hitting soprano notes Mariah Carey might envy. I coughed, wrestling with the best way to break the news as gently as you break the surface tension on a trampoline. “Uh, Joey, meet Tiffany. Or, uh, her body, at least.” Joey's — Tiffany's? — fingers took an experimental feel of his—her?—new hair. “You had an accident. Long story short, this was the only option. But look at the bright side, you were always saying you wanted to get closer to women.” Joey's — nope, definitely Tiffany's now — expression was somewhere between 'someone just stole my ice cream' and 'I'm about to invade Poland.' Just then, Nurse Nancy popped her head in. “I see Sleeping Beauty is awake! Any discomfort?” she asked, blissfully unaware of the emotional earthquake she had sauntered into. Nurse Nancy's thumb hovered dangerously over the morphine button. Oh, how I wanted to slam that for Joey—not Tiffany. “Discomfort? Lady, I’ve gone from being Joe the Bro to Barbie the Bent-out-of-Shape!” Tiffany's voice shot back at her. Nancy just smiled serenely. "Hormonal mood swings are normal. Embrace the estrogen," she said as she floated back into the ether of her other duties. Ah, the blissful ignorance of the emotionally uninvested. I figured it was time to step up as the best friend I had always been. “Look, dude—uh, dudette? We’ve been through thick and thin, pizza and puking. This is just another, albeit bizarre, chapter in our epic buddy-comedy.” Tiffany shot me a look so lethal it could kill a cockroach at fifty paces. But then, something miraculous happened. Joe-Tiff sighed, a sound laden with resignation and acceptance. “Well, first things first, help me up. Let's see if these legs work like they used to.” Tiffany stretched and tentatively swung out of bed. The sight of the six-inch stilettos on the floor triggered memories of the time Joey sprained his ankle because he tried to jump off the garage roof, certain he'd fly. “Whoa there, dangerous territory. Try these," I offered, holding up a pair of fluffy pink slippers. Tiffany groaned but obliged. Once she was standing, albeit wobbly, I guided her to the nearby mirror. Tiffany stared at her reflection, moving from disbelief to flailing attempts to adjust her hospital gown to prevent an impromptu burlesque show. “Damn, she's hot," Tiffany mumbled. Momentary regret flashed across his—well, her—face. “Shame I can't date myself. Mom always said I'm the only one who could put up with me.” Something had to be done about this new dynamic in our friendship. "Hey Tiff, I guess our days of wrestling like wild animals on the apartment carpet are officially over." Tiffany chuckled, a sound that was disturbingly melodic. “I can still tackle you, Bob. Now just with more... finesse." As we gingerly exited the room, ready to face the world and all its oddities, I handed Tiffany her purse. “Here, you'll need this. And don’t freak out, but there’s a lot of pink in there. Try not to vomit.” We walked into the future, best friends for life — one of us now with French-tipped nails and a killer hourglass figure. Some things change, but our friendship, our unbreakable bond, remained the constant nutty glue holding this absurd universe together. Even if one of us now had to learn the fine art of walking in heels before tossing around a football.
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