I washed my face, wiping away the mascara that had run from all the crying, and got ready to leave. I didn’t bother changing, since the outfit I had on seemed decent enough for a trip to the bank. I just pulled up those damn stockings a bit higher.

But then a problem: where the hell was I supposed to put my new feminine ID and the money? My little dress didn’t even pretend to have pockets.

Out in the hallway, I saw three different handbags. Great, yet another delightful part of being a chick. I grabbed the black one, since my outfit was black, and from what I’d heard, the purse is supposed to match your clothes.

By the door, instead of the shoes I was used to, the shelf now held various heels. Cursing under my breath, I slipped on a pair and glanced in the mirror. On the nearby shelf were lipsticks, mascaras, and all sorts of makeup.

Muttering another curse, I started applying lipstick with the precision of a jeweler. To my surprise, it turned out pretty well. I didn’t dare try eye shadow or mascara - I already looked like one of those everyday girls walking the city streets.

As I stepped out of the apartment, I suddenly felt sorry for all the women who had to wear these damn heels every single day. I instantly began to hate my fourth-floor apartment - the stairs now felt endless. My poor legs were suffering.

I descended carefully, gripping the handrail, while the damn heels kept buckling, throwing me off balance to one side or the other. By the next landing, I couldn’t take it anymore and collapsed onto the steps, landing squarely on my soft, round ass.