Like millions of others, I was encouraged by seeing the fellow on the TV, the one who describes himself as a woman (despite a plethora of evidence to the contrary), as he won the Women's 500 metres dash down the swimming pool and back, about five minutes ahead of his nearest rival - an athlete of the female persuasion.
Women might think this is unfair - a man wearing a petticoat beating them at their own game - but one must be generous towards those with peculiar sexual kinks and fantasies, which usually starts with painting one's fingernails. Nothing wrong with wanting tits, yes?
Now me, I always wanted to be a dwarf. There's nothing homoerotic about this as far as I can see, but I was born as a short person standing at just twenty-two inches. My father unkindly called me the Pink Dwarf and my size stayed more or less the same until I at least a year old when I suddenly began to shoot upwards to my current, and deeply embarrassing, six foot three.
The Pink Dwarf sobriquet naturally disappeared before I was eighteen months old in favour of the Little Shrieking Nit (my initials, as it happens) but - too late - I had been scarred for life.
Being looked down upon by my father - he was an inch taller than me - made me long to return to the delightful days of dwarfdom. So, encouraged by a school-friend, I ran away to join the Tap-dancing Tots, a niche-act in the local circus.
The owners initially said 'no', but the ring-master put in a good word for me, and with the help of a document prepared by a Monrovian notary which declared me to be legally pint-sized, I was in.
The crowds were unkind of course - it's hard being something you're not, as the ridiculous Lia Thomas must know.
But, hey, the money's good.
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