Plastic is just fine with me and in all kinds of colors. Although I do not eat plastic, I consume it, and though I don’t feed liquid plastic to my new-born baby through my breasts, it could be like that, my breasts are plastic. If someone had a nightmare about my plastic breasts, that fear would be based on a hard reality, though newer forms of plastic breasts might be softer and more flexible to the touch. Not all types may be able to knock you out cold anymore, through plastic having become a part of my body it feels natural. My breasts may outlast me, only slowly disintegrating, after my death, somewhere par on the speed of my bones decaying, resulting in a coffin’s contents overtime looking different than the traditional old church remains. Perhaps more like a glow-in-the-dark keychain skeleton you willingly make dance to your whims, a ‘danse macabre plastique’, perhaps? The skeleton maybe more willing to tango for two than you had previously imagined.

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