Get a grip of yourself, girl

As you clean yourself off with a moist towel, you have an "Oh shit" moment. You realize that you've made yourself into a slightly sex-crazed slut of a woman. Well, no regrets on the woman bit, but the sex crazed slut bit is probably going to be a problem. Vague memories of your teenage years, school years, and working years begin to trickle into your consciousness, and you realize that having had no abortions with this lifestyle has been a bloody miracle. There's also a lot of memories of men moaning the name Mary in various complimentary and less complimentary ways, so you assume that's your name now.

You get dressed, but realize your top is too wet and messy to be used, so you throw it out and go to your room to get a new one. Unsurprisingly, it's a very feminine setting. There's even a sowing machine on a table in a corner where previously you'd have your computer. There's a white laptop on the nightstand next to the bed, and a (Chanel, duh) purse is lying on the bed. Your heart skips a beat in that familiar way it does when you've lost your cell-phone or your wallet and just found it, so you move over and open it.

In it, there is a (gucci-designed) wallet, confirming your name and your new social security number, and a pink Iphone [urgh] with glitter on the cover, plus a massive amount of feminine purse dwelling items, and, surprising no one, one discrete vibrator and a dozen condoms. You also find your work pass at some local fashion clothing shop front. "Figures that this woman would be fashion obsessed," you think to yourself as some feminine part of you kicks you in a mental shin.

You hear the rustling of keys by the door and realize you got bigger fish to fry. Steve has returned home, the living room is still a mess, You're barely decent and you've turned yourself from a lazy 20-something dude into a raven-haired, nymphomaniac, silicon-enhanced slut named Mary who has a history of getting Steve off in various ways for failing to do her share of the chores. You curse yourself at the naive belief that becoming a woman would have increased your cleaning discipline.

There is only one solution to this as you see it, and that is to use the stereotype Gun on Steve. You move quietly from your room, barely making a sound or a jiggle. You pick up the gun and sit down on the armrest of the couch, hiding it behind a pillow.

As Steve enters the living room, he looks around the room and sighs, not amused, before he rests his eyes on you. You smile and try to look hot and sorry, waiting for the right moment to strike. There's very little time to think of a good stereotype, and memories of how much fun you've had with Steve is beginning to become clearer and clearer in your mind. After a few moments, you decide to...