Very well. Now, shopping.

The two of you leave the Sportplex hours later, sweating through your clothes and exhausted.

"I told you to cover me," says Ris, pushing oyur shoulder, "we wouldn't have died so much if you knew how to reloading worked."

"I was already dead when you told me to cover you," you say, only mildly annoyed. The adrenaline high of the match is keeping your spirits way up.

"You're such a scrub," Ris grumbles. She jumps to mess up your hair.

When she jumps though, you grab her by the waist and lift, spinning her around before setting her on the ground like a princess.

Ris turns red and chokes a smile, checking this way and that to make sure nobody witnessed what just happened. "What the hell, quit picking me up like I'm a little kid or something, it's embarrassing."

"Sure it is," you say, kissing her quick on the lips.

Ris covers her face from embarrassment, overloaded by your affection. "Stooop."

You look around the mall for a distraction to help put Ris at ease, and spot an unfamiliar athletics store that ought to appeal to your girlfriend's new fashion sense. You even see a BIG SALE sign in the window. "All right, we'll do something you want next," you say, hoping to loosen her up again.

Once you reach the store, though, Ris is dismayed. "Why is this something I want?"

Her confusion leaves you off balance. Ris loves shopping. But no, wait. She loved shopping. Past tense. You changed that. You changed everything. Petite women dislike shopping for clothes.

"I thought we could look at some camping gear. I want us to be ready to go when I take you out into the woods next weekend," you say, improvising a story on the spot. Christ, you're bad at this whole world alteration thing.

Ris brightens at the prospect. "Seriously? But you'd have to take time off work!"

With the Rulebook that hardly matters anymore. You could just give yourself any job you wanted now, couldn't you?

"I'm okay taking time off work for you," you say, pulling the Rulebook out from the back of your jeans. "Go have a look, I'll catch up, I need to use the bathroom."

Ris walks off to look at knives while you duck into an aisle and flip through the Rulebook. What was the exact wording you gave for your changes? You need to think through what you're doing here before you run into any more unexpected complications to your thoughtless world-changing shenanigans.

You review the work you've done so far.

OLD RULE: Everyone other than the current owner of the Rulebook (Nicolas) ignore the Rulebook and the act of writing in it unless the current holder directly draws their attention to it.

Petite Girls

OLD RULE: If an adult woman is shorter than 5 ft 2 in, has breasts that are B-cup or smaller, and has a Body-Mass Index below 24, she is considered a petite woman

OLD RULE: It is incredibly hard for petite women to gain enough muscle or fat to lose their petite figure, and incredibly easy for them to lose enough of both to maintain it

OLD RULE: Petite women dislike shopping for clothes. They're confident in their looks without relying on perfect wardrobe selection.

OLD RULE: Petite women are natural born athletes. Their compact size lends them superior energy efficiency, and their wiry little bodies are springy and resilient. While they may have less muscle mass on average, pound for pound their muscles are stronger than that of non-petite individuals.

OLD RULE: All petite women are raised to be tomboys almost exclusively, with social circles during formative years primarily including boys and other tomboys.

It strikes you that if a few words had this much of an impact on the world, pretty much anything is possible from here.

A voice interrupts you.

"Excuse me sir, are you and your girlfriend finding everything all right?"

You snap the Rulebook shut and hide it behind you without thinking. "Hmm?"

An Asian store clerk stands at the end of the aisle, smiling. She's about Christina's height and build. Is she technically petite, then? Her casual attitude, smile, and the shark tooth necklace around her neck seem to suggest so - she's operating under the Rules as far as you can tell.

"I think we're okay," you say. "How'd you know she's my girlfriend?"

"I saw you kissing outside," says the clerk, with a wink. "Are you sure you don't need help?" She says this like she's talking to a child.

"What makes you think I do?" you say, not liking her condescending tone.

The clerk chuckles, far too understanding for your tastes. "Your girlfriend's looking at the knives, not the sports bras," she says. "I'm the same way. Hate shopping for clothes. It's literally why I have this job. If there's something she - or you - are looking for, just tell me. It makes life way easier for everybody."

Your annoyance fades. In world where all petite women - universally - dislike shopping for clothes, of course store clerks would be pushy about helping prospective customers. Otherwise it'd be lost sales.

"You don't even know her sizes," you say, failing to register the logistics of how this weird petite-tomboy-thera world works.

The Asian sales clerk rolls her eyes and folds her arms. "Let me guess. 4'11? B-cup? 115 pounds?"

That sounds exactly like Christina to you. "How did you...?"

"Me and my sisters are all theras," says the clerk, with a simple grin. "Not as much variation in our body types as other women. So, are you looking for shoes? Shorts? Swimwear? Give the word and I'll go pick out a few things she might like."

You're impressed. This little lady really knows her stuff.