[ WP ] You have been transported to an alternate reality in which all social norms , public conduct , and common etiquette are exactly opposite our own . You have landed a job in public relations/ customer service .

You ever think about how oddly specific our clothing norms are? No? Well, me neither.'Till I ended up here that is. Used to be I'd slip into my favorite pair of loafers and a nice three piece tux before work. Now it's a soothingly colored pantsuit and three inch heels, a skirt and long sleeve blouse if it's casual Friday. I still have n't quite gotten the hang of shaving my legs and chest though. You'd think it'd be just as easy as shaving my face, but I'm half Russian Jew and we grow hair like a second skin. 
 
 I pluck my eyebrows, dab on my usual makeup, and make breakfast. Reheated pot roast, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a glass of wine to start the day. I flip on the news as I chow down. The two female news anchors, dressed in jeans and CNN branded t-shirts, are currently tearing the Republican presidential candidate to pieces on air. 
 
 ``... he's a fucking dick Larain! He's GOP trash. The kinda guy who gets passed around more than a whore during fleet week. And you want that shitstain to lead this country?! Are you fucking kidding me??'' 
 
 You think after six months of living here that I'd get used to the way people talk, but I still kinda have n't. No one seems to have a filter in this dimension, either a physical one or a mental one. I've been groped on subway trains, called the most sexist shit imaginable on street corners, and I get wolf whistles from all the construction workers on 32nd street. Part of life here I suppose. 
 
 I leave the dishes in the sink and hit the road at 8:00 o'clock. The subway ride downtown is tolerable enough. I get my ass slapped a few times, but it's only the homeless creep that everyone avoids. She smells like old cabbage, but she's seated in the middle of the car, so it's kinda hard to avoid her. After she does it to someone other than me, she gets suplexed off the train, leaving her in a crumpled heap on the 28th street platform. 
 
 I make it to work more or less unmolested after that. I meet Bob in the elevator. He's a nice enough guy, the only guy in the office who does n't wear makeup or wear heels. He offers me a playful smirk in-between sips of coffee. 
 
 ``'Sup twat licker?'' He offers in greeting. It takes me a second to overcome my somehow still functioning internal censor. `` Nothing much faggot. Same shit, different day. How's life treating you?'' 
 
 `` Pretty well. Took a black guy home last night and he destroyed my ass, but I ca n't complain. A good fucking is good for the thinkin' juices.'' Bob works in advertising, writes jingles and does some of the writing too I think. The elevator dings and Bob bids me farewell. ``'Later fuckface.'' He offers me as he slips off the elevator. 
 
 I make it to my desk at around 8:55, and see a big manilla folder. `` Fuck my life!'' I exclaim loudly, leaning back in my chair and pressing both my hands into my face. I hear an Amen from another cubicle as I return my chair to it's original position. 
 
 We're doing hiring for about ten new positions, mostly internal stuff like janitors and a few mailroom clerks too. Each resume is at least five pages long, with no interview or even a name attached to each of the folders. I have to hire purely based on qualifications and skills, no computers or interviews allowed. It's going to be a long, long, long day. I sigh, shake my head, and get to work on my massive stack of paperwork.
