The label says 32-D

You check the label of your pink bras, and they say you're a 32-D. Okay. You need a moment to let this sink in, then you gulp as you see the rest of the wardrobe's content.

All your stuff is pink, even down to the same shade of pink. Some clothes have gold highlights, or red stripes, or black details, or have glitter on them... But aside from that, you're a pinkie-pink girl apparently. Every bit of clothing matches the others. Even your silk pajamas have changed color from their previous blue. And naturally, all your previous boy clothes are gone as well. You spot a vast assortment of skirts, blouses and tops, but it's not as outrageously skimpy as you first suspect. Blue jeans also come in pink, apparently, although you only own a single pair now. Your pink yoga-pants and harem-pants are not sheer, but solid fabric, too. There are some cute hats, scarves and hair slides, all of them pink of course; and then there are your pink socks. None of your various pink-and-white sneakers and pink-and-black sandals have a heel. Okay, the sandals have little wedge-heels, as you inspect them more closely.

You close the wardrobe and inspect your shelf, desk and bed. All of your belongings have turned pink as well. You grab one of your notebooks for class, of course having a pink cover. All your pens and pencils write in pink now, obviously. Somehow, even your textbooks changed color. Your backpack, your jacket, your deodorant. Oh right, checking your hygiene articles. Apparently, as your girl-you, nothing has drastically changed. All you see in your cramped pink bathroom cabinet are feminine versions of the products you previously owned as a man. Although, there is a pink lipstick you didn't own before, and you no longer own a toothbrush, due to your... anatomical oddity.

And as you turn and look in the bathroom mirror, you're shocked to see your short hair has changed to the same vibrant pink that all your stuff is colored in. You don't let out a shriek or a cry. Protesting against your own wishes won't help, probably. You rush back into your dorm-room to check yourself in the large mirror behind Casey's bed. You still have your regular eye-color, there is no hint of make-up, not even of your lipstick. No nail polish, no pink tattoos... you sigh in relief.

Ashley stirs in her bed, and sticks her orange-hair out of her orange sheets, squinting towards the room's ceiling light. "Will you please turn off the light, John? It's the middle of the night!" she complains.

"Ummm... I was checking where Casey is!?" You stammer, but obediently move to the room's entrance to operate the switch.

"Who cares? Bitch is in charge! She can fuck the bunny in the moon right now for all I care. We got our nookie today, she pays us, and Alice is your Aunty." Ashley wriggles around in the narrow bed, rolls herself in the orange blanket. Then she leans precariously over the edge and falls off the bed, onto the grey carpet. You blink at the carpet color. Apparently, it doesn't belong to either of you girls, so it remained grey?

"Stupid dorm beds! They are small, hard and stupid." Ashley mopes, crawling back onto the matress. "Don't you wish too, that we had huge luxury designer beds?"

You nod, it's not as if you had slept well so far in your freshman weeks . "Sure, I wish that too."