Many accidents

To illustrate:

You made a deal with the Devil for infinite power for one day. You started by re-wishing the definition of "a day" into "a thousand years". The Devil was really mad, and is probably going to roast you slowly in Hell when those years end. To make matters worse, it's only been two months and you've done everything you can think of.
You need friends so you don't go batshit. You've already used your power to wish them forth, and it's boring because you know exactly how they'll act. But the only person in the room is some kind of club girl you have no idea how to talk to because you look her way halfway and she's raising drawn-up eyebrows at you like you're some kind of pedophile flying pig. She's talking to friends who're probably just looking for more X or recovering from a breakup that was so fucking important to the person that she's sure as hell not going to show you, and she's whipping the screen away as soon as you look.
She won't work - wait.
zap
She sits down, clutching her head. Her blonde hair darkens and withdraws into her head, her tanktop turns into a T-shirt, she's checking some ad-filled gossip site on her cellphone. Her makeup kind of fades as she browses, and her pouty-lipped expression loses the Botox and becomes looser. She tugs on her skirt and it turns into a pair of baggy jeans, and the next time her high heels poke out from the legs they're a pair of holey black hiking shoes with at least four years of history. She notices something odd about her nails as the polish vanishes from them, and puts her phone aside to check it - and when she finally notices nothing odd and picks it back up, it's a black Motorola folding phone and not a pearl-colored cutting-edge iPhone.
Her legs kind of shorten, you see her waist kind of filling in, she smiles childishly at something she's seeing on her screen - and then she looks at your T-shirt and stares around awkwardly for about half a minute, fiddling with her hair. And then -
"uh, excuse me, I can see it on your T-shirt but do you like historical reenactment - "
And then five minutes later she's fished a big bottle of Dr Pepper out of her grey messenger bag and is sperging about Imperial Japanese heavy artillery at you while you smile.
Should you tweak reality so she has other friends with pocket protectors and a room filled with dirty socks and soda cans and WWII memorabilia, or should you send her out in the real world and peek when her friends come over to check on her?
Scratch the "ennui of ages" thing, this is plenty fun actually.

You made a girlfriend.
Stop laughing.
She's sweet and she's funny and she's loyal. There's just the thing that she's cripplingly shy and barely ever gets exercise, and you find her clinging to your arm and shivering when you're about to go to a party and both of you end up at home awkwardly explaining why you went home to the friends you promised you would come, or clutching her chest when you go out to take out the laundry, or very nearly enter a tantrum when you aren't constantly there for her, and it's driving both of you insane.
The most important thing, though, is that you're a masochist and she's one too and you just aren't getting good sex. Every time is a bummer and every time you're both apologizing to each other.
Actually, you suggest after the latest disappointment.
Science has come a long way, and just two months ago they legalized consumer nanobots, which had ostensibly been fully developed but black-boxed by a UN fearing a grey-goo scenario.
There's this supplement that you heard about on the Internet recently, and she's all over you as soon as you mention it, desperate to not disappoint anyone.
It's just a little brown pill, and both of you have nearly lost hope already as she swallows it. You almost forget that you ever gave it to her, and you both watch TV and sleep and the next day you'll only be meeting her in the afternoon because she goes to work at like five in the morning.
The next day, you wake up at ten when she calls.
"What's up? Wanna arm-wrestle? I can go all the way home to do it if it's that."
"What's that all even about?"
"I guess I just kinda felt like it. Don't sweat it. It's just me getting fed up with work."
It only hits you afterwards that you've been suspecting she hates her work for ages, but she's always broken down into an apologetic lump because she's thankful to the people who pay her their precious money.
She calls again at around three, when you're doing commissions on some horrible furry site.
"Get some beers when you're out anyway, wouldja?"
It's her - she likes to drink because she can relax and she wants to drink beer - but wasn't it that it was too bitter and she couldn't drink it?
You come home with the beer at four-something.
The moment you open the door, someone bear-hugs you and you almost flail around before you realize she smells like your girlfriend. You ready a suspicious question and look where you normally look, a little bit down at her face - and you're looking straight into her tits through a stretched T-shirt.
And she doesn't get awkward like she usually does. Her hair is a mess, she stinks of booze so she probably skipped work to drink, what has she *done* there's construction dust in her hair and her right pants leg is covered in mud, but she's beaming.
You play a lot of Smash that evening, and she gets her ass wiped but swears to win next time, and this time she was playing Little Mac and Bayonetta all the time. She noogies you when you get three victories in a row, and when you get six "it's time to open a beer".
She chugs one, says "she'll show you something cool", puts the can between her forehead and yours and pushes the back of your head. Both of you end up with a cut on your forehead and beer all over you, but you're laughing your asses off.
And five minutes later, she's pounding the shit out of you on the mattress and she's just not getting tired. She didn't used to have a six-pack, either, even though this isn't giant.
And the next morning, she's dug into your fucking cigarettes judging from the smell. As soon as you twitch, she rolls over and straddles you.
"First to three wins."


There's this intolerable girl in class who's too perfect. She has the best or second-best grades every exam, she's pretty, she's well-spoken, she's rich, she's well-dressed, she's super-fit and she doesn't drink or smoke or do drugs and she acts like she's floating above everyone else because of it.
This needs to be fixed, says Tall Skinny Glasses-wearing Faceless Bucktoothed Classmate w/ Convenient Magic Reality-Altering Remote.
Right before she's about to be inaugurated as student council rep, TSGFBCw/CMRAR turns it up to 11 and fires it straight at the center of her forehead.
The sentence "As you might know, the discipline of our institution has been wavering in the last semester" flips and becomes "You have to stop getting wasted or the Headmaster is going to expel my ass". The horror hits her halfway through "ass", and she looks across the chilly auditorium as no one speaks.
She panics a bit - shit, her back is itching, better scratch it - before readying a perfect excuse that paints it all as a joke, but in the end she just chuckles and says "I didn't really mean it, people".
And what the fuck is she wearing - was she wearing a too-small stained T-shirt without a bra, a flannel shirt and jeans earlier on?
And then she tries to speak, but something needs to - she burps and wipes her mouth in her shirt sleeve.
She frenziedly excuses herself and runs into the bathroom to lay her makeup, but - what is all this shit? The makeup she's put on a thousand times just looks like a lot of fancy-ass expensive face paint and she has no drive to put it on, nor does she have any idea of how you do it.
She was going to rise to the top with her class and eloquence, right? (But I don't have patience for that kind of bullshit)
She had the perfect dress idea for the prom ball, right? (What the fuck, that's way too frilly and too much bullshit)
(She was going to drag her boyfriend into town and eat only half a salad) Fuck it, if he's going to pay for her portion she'll fucking murder two pizzas and a Coke.
(She had been planning a spa trip with her friends recently) Can't be fucked to cross a state border for a facial treatment.
She knows those aren't her thoughts, but she can't bring the others to the surface. Everything "sophisticated" is a pain in the ass, she just wants to have a nice time. She tries to explain it when she comes back on stage, and it sounds to herself like she's doing well but she vaguely realizes she probably embarrassed herself worse than ever.
The next day, she's still awkward, picking at her short hair and wondering why it doesn't feel weird or embarrassing or dykey.
Two years later, she's gone to the trouble of finding a new hairdresser's just because they do a rocking women's short.
She's on welfare and out of school and in an carpenter apprenticeship and drinking a sixie a day and smoking a pack of Marlboros and yeah she's pretty sure she's happy, wanna go for a drink?
Meanwhile, Tall Skinny Classmate is the student council president, and he doesn't care he's doing a shitty-ass job because all the prissy student council girls know they're going to get zapped if they mouth off.