"Lovesick" and other concerns of a fashionista

by Gweat and Powaful Twixie

Chapters

• note one of twenty-nine
• note two of twenty-nine
• note three of twenty-nine
• note four of twenty-nine
• note five of twenty-nine
• note six of twenty-nine
• note seven of twenty-nine
• note eight of twenty-nine
• note nine of twenty-nine
• The First Concern

note one of twenty-nine

Twilight lent me a book after a long afternoon of talking, Existentialism by Robert Soloman. A curiously small book that’s quite dense to the casual reader. Usually I fancy myself more than that, but I may have been wrong. As I read it, I found myself staring at the words rather than actually reading. I watched ten pages unfold at the speed I usually read without a clue as to what was being said. At the end of the ten pages I knew as much as I did as when I started. Twas odd, and has engulfed my thoughts since then. I’m going to try again, but not today— tomorrow, when I have a clearer mind.

That’s another thing (of a rapidly growing list) that I find curious. Wouldn’t a smart pony slow down if they weren’t understanding what they had their nose in? I mean, I’m no prodigy like Twilight, but I’ve been told of possessing, and have aptly demonstrated, moderate intelligence. I’m not the uneducated rabble, so shouldn’t I read slower when I’m not understanding something? It seems like the educated thing to do.

Maybe I’m blowing this all out of proportion. I mean, a pony could have simply been awestruck by the genius of the paper. The chap did possess a wonderful vocabulary, and exactly one time I did follow his train of thought (or so I think). Unironically, it was the bit about coffee, but I digress. Like a child is dazzled by a fantastic magic show, I was left unable to explain what was being presented to me. The child and I are so very similar in this respect, and less reflective ponies would be able to accept this and move on. Instead, it makes me ask more questions, not about the way things are, but about the way things ought to be.

Sure, it’s a minor incident. Of course it means little to nothing and I should simply cast it into the wind, but what if I’m just failing to notice something greater out of foolish ignorance? Of all things, I despise the brand of ignorance. I wish to be well-informed, worldly, and sharp enough to read a silly little book. If there is some sort of underlying personality flaw then I feel like it is my obligation to acknowledge it, if not address and correct it.

note two of twenty-nine

After reading it a few more times, this book is starting to make sense insofar as it seems to be just as confused as I am. Mr. Soloman writes as though this topic, existentialism, is more of a feeling than a way of thinking. Usually when I read philosophy, I expect something with explanatory power rather than the very rejection of such a notion. Existentialism, as I understand it, serves to encompass all of one’s doubts towards this dreary world, and even though I do not have the same concerns as this chap (aside from that of drinking too much coffee), I see in his words the same sorts of confusion I see in myself. It’s comforting in a strange way.

Ever since my youth, I’d been told I possess artistic vision in a grand quantity, and, while irreplaceable in my life, I’ve always felt it to be a double-edged sword. I see designs and colours, even when I don’t want to. I can’t toss a switch when I’d like to sleep or think of other things. It’s maddening, and the underlying catalyst for this recent dip into the academic. We may be Equestrians, but in the end we’re still equines, animals. We were designed with crude survival instinct and now we’ve been infused with this ability to self-reflect. We've made our societies and rules of engagement; we do things that animals should not and go against our animal selves. I think there is something fundamentally wrong with the ability to reason. We are not designed to do this, and Robert agrees.

I can’t say that anything that I’ve read has given me any insight into my own life, but it’s comforting to know I’m not alone.

It’s depressing to think others suffer so unnecessarily from life as I do. There are a million little concerns and worries that all build up in such a way that feels hopeless. By the time I’ve gotten myself attached to a problem and begin working on how to fix it, I’ve forgotten the problem from last week. I’d like to blame age for my forgetfulness, but it can’t be so simple. Maybe I’ll figure it out. Until then, I lie trapped in an endless loop of stagnation.

note three of twenty-nine

I think Twilight is hiding something from me. Every time I visit she’s a very gracious hostess; she asks what I’d like to drink and finds some way to entertain me if the cause of visit isn’t apparent. It’s quite formal, too much so even for me. She has my favourite coffee and a very relevant topic to bring to my attention within a very reasonable amount of time from when I enter her home. It’s nice and all, but superficial. To my knowledge, we are friends and I’m dropping in on her because I enjoy her company, so why treat me like a dinner guest?

I appreciate her more and more as we go on about the same strangeness that seems to plague both our lives. After the ceremony and her most recent scientific topic or musing to share, she becomes much more like the friend I truly care for: a snarkier academic with a chip on her shoulder, and also in possession of the heart of an artist. It’s at these points where our talks on life become something I wouldn’t trade the world for.

She gets it. Somehow the thing that makes us all so special, the ability to think and reason, becomes our undoing in the end. I know I think too much. I over-analyze how much I over-analyze. And you know what? I never thought I’d meet another pony like me. I don’t wish it on anyone, but I’m glad Twilight can look me in the eye and tell me how she feels.

I want that Twilight, not her weird, lets-pretend-like-we’re-doing-what-she-thinks-every-other-social-pony-does persona. Today, I found the bothersome feeling of being treated like a friendly acquaintance or academic peer to be too much. The last thing I need in this growing weirdness and detachment from life is my one confidant becoming estranged to me. I don’t think she understands how much I look forward to our talks.

Let me elaborate. Recently my thoughts on my art, and caffeine intake, had made me too hazy to help my sister with her homework, and that has never happened before. Even Sweetie Belle asked me if I’d be going to see Twilight today. That didn’t help my mood because now my little sister is beginning to see I’m not so stable. When I was a child, the adults I knew didn’t have such a thin veil to their problems, and I don’t want to trouble such a young one with anything but total security. I should have all the answers for her, and not be either crying myself to sleep each night or simply not sleeping.

But I digress. I wanted to talk with Twilight about these personal things without needing to mull over the latest fashion news that happened to reach Twilight’s ear for a half hour. I live, eat, and breathe fashion, and sometimes I wonder if Twilight thinks that’s all I care about. It isn’t, and I need to get my real feelings out. I thought that if I broke the little ceremony in an unobtrusive way I could show her that we’re good friends and that we don’t need to put on facades, ever.

So, when she asked me what I’d like to drink, I told her that I could fetch it myself. There was a moment of puzzlement on her face. She said it wasn’t proper to have a guest get her own refreshments, but I’d heard that one before and followed her into the kitchen anyway.

I saw her briskly putting away a bag of coffee beans with a big label on it that read “Rarity’s Favourite”. There was also a fashion magazine on the table with the same label. I glanced at it for only a moment though, and Twilight probably assumed I didn’t see it.

It was heartbreaking in the most unusual way. I’d never think Twilight to be so simple, or to believe me so simple. Were there magazines on sports somewhere hidden with “Rainbow Dash’s Favourite” labeled onto it? Maybe a nature magazine and box of teabags for Fluttershy?

She insisted that we go out instead. I agreed, and the entire time I felt like I was talking to a stranger. It was disheartening, so much so that I feigned illness to come home early. It’s easier to sit on an upset stomach at home.

My head is hazy still, but I regret not staying out. I want to understand my friend and why she does the things she does.

note four of twenty-nine

A messenger came early this morning to personally deliver a letter. It said that two days ago, my father had died in a motor vehicle accident and that the funeral would be held on Friday. After reading it, the colt told me how sorry he was for me and I thanked him. I’ve read and heard many anecdotes about ponies having weird reactions to these sorts of events, and sometimes grief is not as one expects. You see, I’m really groggy before my morning cup of coffee and sometimes I don’t really get things until after it. That was the first order of business.

Unfortunately, Sweetie Belle walked in and read the letter, which I had absentmindedly tossed onto the table. She asked me if it was real and I told her yes. She did as I would have expected, choke a bit and break down into tears. I sat down across from her with my coffee and she asked me why I wasn’t crying. I told her I didn’t know, and we locked eyes for some time. Eventually she stopped crying and I told her it was alright to stay home from school. She sniffled a bit and went up to her room, probably to cry more.

I finished my coffee and waited for the clarity of mind that it brought me. Over the next half-hour I reread the letter several times, memorized the date of the funeral, and calculated my travel time. Thankfully it didn’t conflict with any important clients or business affairs. It did run over some time that I would have liked to spend visiting Twilight with, but I suppose that’s not as pressing of a matter.

I waited for clarity, but it didn’t come. I poured myself another cup and thought of my sister. By the time that one kicked in, I could feel a trembling in my hoof, the sort of "wired" trembling that makes me feel sick and frail. It's a horrible thing, really. I need it to wake up, but too much of it puts me right back into bed, unable to sleep. So many days wasted from too much or not enough. There must be a perfect balance I always seem to miss somewhere in the world, but I digress.

When this sickly shaking starts up, I like to walk this route that helps me refocus on fashion. It takes me past a few choice locations to help arouse the heart. The school I went to as a child, the restaurant where I went on my first date, the same restaurant where I’d had my heart broken; things to help me feel. Fashion designing is a fickle thing that comes and goes, and thinking of this stuff helps designs stay in my head long enough to get them on paper. There are also many lovely park benches sprinkled across the route to let me relax or catch my breath. When I stepped outside the air tasted hot. I began my walk and before I knew it I was already home.

In the same daze that led me on my walk, I fixed myself a more substantial breakfast (even though it was closer to brunch by this point) and tried reading the letter again. Something about not feeling sad struck me as odd. A parent dying should make a pony sad, if not tearful. I did care for my father, but we had drifted apart. We shared little in common, and he rarely visited. When he did, I cooked, we’d eat, then we’d talk, and then he’d go back home. In the last year I could count on one hoof the number of times he’d visited. Perhaps that was the root of my melancholy, and in my mind it made sense. Without a meaningful relationship, he was just another pony, and ponies died all the time without my attention. It was morbid, but sensible all the same.

Somehow I’d poured myself yet another cup. My stomach regretted me for it and churned over the stuff. It was miserable, but my mind had cleared and that’s when I began to feel a little sadness. I thought about taking some of that sadness and turning it into creative power. I always design better when I’m sad or angry or infatuated (though I haven’t felt that last one in a while), yet I couldn’t find the will to do so. I thought about sitting in front of the blank drawing board. I could see the designs clearly, but I didn’t want to. My stomach was upset, and an upset stomach fatigues me like nothing else in this world. If that didn't excuse me from work, then a father passing might grant me a day off. I retired to my bedroom and decided to take a nap. As I settled in, there was a knock at my bedroom door and Sweetie Belle told me that Twilight had come over.

I silently groaned in my mind at the thought of telling all my friends.

Twilight was there with a wagon full of books and that brought a small smile to my face, or so I felt. I was excited that she had come to visit after I'd so shamelessly abandoned her, but less so than I have been in the past. I could tell because when I answered the door, Twilight asked me if something was wrong. I told her, “No, I’m fine, just tired.” There must have been something about the way I said that, because she said, “Oh,” and invited me to come to the library later after getting some sleep.

She looked hurt, and when the door closed I felt a tinge of guilt.

I would have to cover that lie about nothing being wrong. Technically, everything was wrong. I imagined a few ways of how to play off the lie and settled on telling her I was just too shocked and hadn’t been feeling well. That made me feel a bit better, and I slept the rest of the day away with only minimal tossing and turning. I don’t know if I’m in shock, but I should probably want to be.

note five of twenty-nine

I awoke within an hour of midnight. Feeling rested enough, I decided to visit Twilight, with confidence that she was awake. She was a night owl, always worrying about studying, or worse, studying about something worrisome. I thought it a regrettable state of mind to never be able to let something go. I am “into” fashion, and it is my profession, but if I were to wake up one day and find that all the sewing thread in the world were gone I feel like it wouldn’t bother me so much. I’d be able to cope with ease, move on, and find a new profession, and I think that a strength of mine.

Twilight, on the other hoof, would go ballistic if her library had gone missing, but to each their own.

In a way, I do admire that passion and wish I still had it. A while ago I ceased having those “moments.” You know, the moment in which an idea must simply be put onto paper before any other need can be met, where it flows straight from your mind to the canvas. I remember designing for hours at a time without a care in the world, and being very impressed with myself.  Now those times are scheduled to meet others’ schedules on one very large, arbitrary schedule, and falling behind schedule means altering my coming schedule for more work.

I do believe that by making a living of it, my artist’s heart has been sucked from me. Have no doubt, I am very good at what I do. Others have told me I’m fabulous, and because of the nature of my profit coming from their approval, that is all that matters. Unfortunately, it feels like a dull reflex rather than an attempt at pushing the bar and revolutionizing the art of fashion. Even my revolutions are on a schedule now.

Twilight was very happy to see me, so I smiled back. I must have been as obvious as I was this morning, because she again asked me what the matter was. I told her without hesitation. She was understandably distraught, more so than me, which made me feel worse about my own reaction. Fortunately, she didn’t ask me why I had lied earlier that day, but instead asked how I felt. I told her I didn’t know. I told her I didn’t know how to feel, and she replied that this reaction was common.

She levitated a book from a shelf about the nature of grief and flipped through it. Ponies in grief often go through an emotional cycle: denial, bargaining, anger, sadness, and acceptance. She noted I was probably in denial, which seemed accurate. I hadn’t given my father much of any thought since I read the letter. Maybe somewhere deep down I hadn’t parsed that he was actually gone. It didn’t seem likely since this day felt as yesterday did, and the day before, but it was an excuse.

Twilight wasn’t happy per se to have diagnosed me accurately, but satisfied. About what, I’m not sure. She asked me if there was anything I wanted or needed, and I said, “No, just a friend.” That brought a bittersweet smile to her face and a tear to her eye. She hugged me and I hugged her back.

She asked if I wanted a cup of coffee because we'd probably be up all night having a real, "heartfelt" talk.

I couldn’t refuse.

note six of twenty-nine

Last night I watched Twilight cry over my dead father while I sat there and comforted her. She wasn’t wailing, but sniffling and tearing up, and I watched with curiosity more than anything else. I want to believe that she’s just a more emotional pony than I, but I can’t say that for certain. I was once as she was, emotional and attached. I even remember a time where I had, in my youth, let my imagination get the better of me and considered this exact scenario: a dead father. I cried myself to sleep that night. Now that I’m older I think that a sense of respect has overtaken my attachment to things.

I view myself as older and more mature in all the realistic ways of life. Long-married couples do not love each other as they once did. Passion is a youthful thing and I’ve had my run of that. Ponies have always told me that I was “emotionally smart,” older in heart than other ponies my age, and I now know they are right. Passion leads to so much folly that one is better off without it. It would be so regrettable, but the nifty thing about the progression is that I can’t find it regrettable. I’m too old to do so.

At one point in time, Twilight asked me if I had a bad relationship with my father. I told her that there were no outstanding complaints. She looked at me hard and then asked if there was anything else I wanted to talk about. I thought, and asked her why she had a bag of coffee with my name on it.

She blushed and said, “Rarity, please, this isn’t the time for that.”

I nodded and we sat in silence. Twilight started to fidget and throw glances between me and her hooves. All at once, she said it was because she harboured feelings for me and was then silent. I asked her for how long, and she said since about a month after she met me, and had been afraid of compromising our friendship over such a matter. She admitted that she should have just told me, and not grown obsessive about it.

I nodded again and felt my stomach churn. I noticed that I was now on my third cup of coffee, and almost as if given a cue, my hooves began to shake. I felt light-headed, but faster. There was an apology for being two-faced that I forgave. Twilight then told me that the conversation could be postponed until I was ready to answer and I replied that it was no trouble. Today was a day as any other was. What discerns one day from another is what happened on it, but there was apparently some rule that said only so much could happen on a single day. All things are held equal in my eyes, and I think that’s why I can judge things so objectively. A day where both my father dies and I start a new relationship is no different than a day where I design a new dress and cook dinner for Sweetie Belle. It seems heartless to equate my father dying to designing a new dress, but in only so many words can I describe how they feel the same.

Twilight fidgeted again. It would make her happy to have me, so I let her.

note seven of twenty-nine

My father was buried in Manehattan today. Something I never realized was how well-known he was. Hundreds were in attendance for his funeral. Old co-workers, business partners, a few rather affluent ponies, and even a stallion who claimed to have been saved from drowning by my father. It was unexpected, and many ponies approached me to offer their condolences. I simply thanked them. I thought that perhaps I could say something more comforting, but nothing came to mind. In the light of possibly saying something offensive, I decided to say as little as possible and wear a pained look on my face.

Twilight also decided to accompany me despite my protests. I figured that a princess had more pressing matters to attend to, but she told me otherwise. I smiled as she went into one of her passionate monologues about friendship, agreeing with most of her points and finding a small smidge of my heart coming alight.

She really does believe in the things she says, and not because she thinks it will make her look good. The things she believes in are the truth of the universe to her. It’s times like this where I feel so much older than her. I used to think there was a true right and wrong back when my head was full of hormones, but now I know there isn’t that sort of absolute in the world. Sometimes, I think I do things because it makes me look better, and sometimes for other reasons, but right now I don’t know if I can do something because it’s the right thing. Mostly because I don’t know what the right thing is.

I felt some spark inside of me as she went on, and that was when I let her come with me.

I was to give a eulogy at the funeral, and as I approached the lectern the single cup of coffee this morning decided to upset my delicate stomach. I didn’t want to show my heartlessness in front of so many ponies. I know there is something wrong with me, that I won’t deny, but I didn’t want everyone else to know that. I ran off the stage and was sick in the washroom. It didn’t embarrass me though. Ponies are sometimes sick when struck with grief, and I know a pony would be a fool to think less of me. I even heard a few “poor thing”s as I ran off.

It was only after I returned that I noticed something I feel like I definitely should have noticed before. More than half of those in attendance, ponies I barely knew but were great friends with my father, were my earliest clients. This funeral was as much a funeral for my father as it was a gathering of every rich schmuck who had bought into my silly fashions. Even Hoity Toity and Sapphire Shores were there, and not because I invited them.

It was only at this point where I began to cry.

note eight of twenty-nine

As soon as it started, it was over. My crying stopped. There was a tinge of anger as I resented my father for giving me so much false hope, but then that passed as well. What didn’t come and go so easily was the solace.

He had made me everything I am today. Words can’t express what it’s like to have the one thing you think you’re good at pulled out from under your hooves and tossed whimsically into the wind. A lot of thoughts and descriptions of my condition passed through my head, but one stuck more than any other. More than anything, I felt empty in the sense of if anyone asked me what I liked or was good at I wouldn’t have an answer for them.

And it was comforting.

As soon as it started, it was over. My crying stopped. There was a tinge of anger as I resented my father for giving me so much false hope, but then that passed as well. What didn’t come and go so easily was the solace.

He had made me everything I am today. Words can’t express what it’s like to have the one thing you think you’re good at pulled out from under your hooves and tossed whimsically into the wind. A lot of thoughts and descriptions of my condition passed through my head, but one stuck more than any other. More than anything, I felt empty in the sense that if anyone asked me what I liked or was good at I wouldn’t have an answer for them.

And it was comforting.

As soon as it started, it was over. My crying stopped. There was a tinge of anger as I resented my father for giving me so much false hope, but then that passed as well. What didn’t come and go so easily was the solace.

He had made me everything I am today. Words can’t express what it’s like to have the one thing you think you’re good at pulled out from under your hooves and tossed whimsically into the wind. A lot of thoughts and descriptions of my condition passed through my head, but one stuck more than any other. More than anything, I felt empty in the sense that if anyone asked me what I liked or was good at I wouldn’t have an answer for them.

And it was comforting.

One thing I’ve always worried about is whether ponies will think I “make sense.” It’s a crippling fear I have, but I know it’s what has made me the socially savvy pony I am. Now, more than ever, I make sense. I don’t enjoy designing anymore, and now I know I’m poor at it. The first years of it were my passionate infatuation with the idea, and like an old, married couple who has become unhappy, I know there is nothing left to do but separate.

Twilight thinks I’ve lost my mind in a fit of grief, but she is so much farther from reality than I am. My designs were hideous, and now I know how much of a fool I am for believing that anyone would really like them. She, being the divine sweetheart she is, told me that, if I quit designing, she would wear that dreadful gala dress I made her every Saturday until I took it back up. I admit that I think she looks ravishing in it, but that’s just my narrow-minded fashion sense talking. Everyone will be too polite to give her anything but compliments and I’m sure she’ll think she’s winning. Unbeknownst to her, I know this all already and she’ll be the fool as I was.

I’ll let her figure that out on her own.

We went home, and I received the talks I expected from my friends. First was comforting advice about how to cope with my father’s death, and then inquiries into my new life decision. Why give up my passion? What happened to make me think this? It was a bore, and at one point I became quite tired of their questions. I asked my friends if they still saw passion in my eye anymore, because I certainly didn’t feel it. Their silence was satisfying in its own way. I did manage to convince Rainbow Dash and Pinkie Pie that fashion wasn’t my calling, which wasn’t surprising. Dashie didn’t seem to care too much, but quoted it to be “weird that you’re giving up on it,” and Pinkie was her usual fickle self. Everyone else was skeptical but supportive, with only Twilight in full unrelenting protest.

Twilight and I went back to her library to spend some time together and she donned her dress. Yes, it was silly, and even though I knew it was hideous I wanted to see her in it more.

note nine of twenty-nine

Twilight came with me to the market today to buy some groceries. As promised, that silly mare wore that silly gala dress. She got all sorts of compliments and two ponies even asked her for a date. I could not roll my eyes hard enough. I'm an absolute wretch of fashion, but I know better than to take such old, out-dated styles and turn them into the talk of the town. Still, she wore that dress, and her two invitations for dinner, like they were fabric proof that my new life choice was wrong. Maybe she's being inconsiderate of me, and maybe she's not, but it irks me nonetheless. Her smugness about how "right she was" definitely rubbed me the wrong way though.

I assured her she was wrong and she rolled her eyes back at me. At least she made sure to turn down those two hopefuls. She wouldn't dare turn her back on me. I did expect all of this though. Part of me liked seeing how right I was about how misled all these ponies were. If I was this mistaken about fashion, I dread to think about what they might wear to a wedding.

Aside from the expected, a town crier was in the square today. Well, more of a preacher, you know, one of those conservative types. He said that, "Faith is dead!" and to "Repent, for your sins are upon you!" He's the sort of invasive pony that certainly knows how to ruin a peaceful Saturday afternoon. He walked right up to me and asked me, "Where do you put your faith?"

I'm usually the sort of pony who humours them and lies about placing faith in the universe or the eternal, and that usually satisfies them. Twilight, on the other hoof, likes to make a conversation of it. She asked him what he meant by "putting it somewhere.” She asked if faith is something that goes on a bookshelf or in a box. After that, he wore a sad face and looked straight at me and asked me, "Do you believe?"

I must admit, his sad eyes made me want to consider the question for more than what it was. I asked him what I should believe in and he replied, "That which will make you passionate. Anything and everything that gives you hope. Believe in the thing that will give you meaning."

I must have looked thoughtful because his eyes sparkled a bit. Twilight continued to argue with him over why any pony should believe in something they can't prove. It was amusing. Twilight certainly seemed passionate in proving him wrong, so much so that he laughed and said she had so much faith that she didn't have faith that she might as well have faith. She told him that such a tired argument doesn't stand up in the academic world because she knew she had a lack of faith, not a different kind of faith.

I agree with her. I don't make such grand things for myself and believe they exist without reason. I'll have my passion when I find it again, I'll have my hope if the odds are good that the thing I want will come into fruition, and I don't have an absolute meaning in life. Meaning is a fickle thing that comes and goes with the wind. One moment's enlightenment to the meaning of life is a mix of emotion and raw feeling. Nothing rational. If life had an absolute meaning I'm sure a very smart pony, who lived a long time ago, would have figured it out.

The First Concern

I saw Pinkie Pie today. She was bouncing about in her usual fashion without a care in the whole world. I’ll never understand how other ponies can balance so many things on their head or nose, but there she was, hopping at least three feet in the air with a full batch of cupcakes on her crown. Every one of them should have fallen off, but they neatly fell back into place after each bounce.

She stopped by me and asked if I wanted one. I declined. I waved my mug full of coffee at her and told her it would give me an upset stomach. She stared at it, sniffed it, and drew back holding her nose as though it held an offensive aroma. There we had a dance of eyes that shifted between each other and the cup. I’d long stopped trying to figure out what made Pinkie Pie do the things she did, but even this I thought was weird. Had she never encountered coffee before? Given her nature, I figured she IV’d herself to it every night before going to sleep.

She motioned for me to levitate the cup closer so I did. She peeked over the edge of the mug and the steaming, dark liquid, and without warning, spun around and kicked it to the ground. The mug shattered, spilling my precious drink into the dirt.

I was so utterly lost for words at this. That was possibly my second favourite mug. It was this lovely, youthful piece I’d acquired some time ago. There were little dinosaurs sculpted into the side, and molded to the floor of the cup was an adorable long-necked one. He’d poke out over the surface as I sipped it and sometimes I’d wave and greet him when it emptied a little. Of all things that happened to me, I wanted most to cry over this. That dinosaur didn’t deserve that, and neither did I. It was just the most exemplary example of rudeness.

Pinkie looked me in the eye while I made sure to hold my mouth quite agape. She had no shame. Was I just about to lose a friend over a tiny mug? Did she not care about what she’d done? Would she care if I called her something mean and ran off crying? That innocent, ignorant scowl on her face was probably there for some ridiculous reason. Sure, she wasn’t trying to be mean, but being a delusional pony does not give one the right to shatter one’s important possessions . Even if it was a dinosaur mug.

I hate to admit it, but there were some days where that tiny dinosaur was the only thing that made me smile.

Part of her mane then reached into another part of her mane in a way that both creeped me out and made me insanely jealous. I do wish that after how well I treated my mane that it would reward me with semi-sentience, but I digress. Hanging at the tip of her curly bangs was another mug, exactly alike the one I just had.  

She dangled it in front of me and I took it. I saw the same little dinosaur inside it and sniffled. It was possibly the happiest moment of the last few months of my life. The simple joy of having something lost returned to me. I looked down in the mug and cooed at the tiny dinosaur.

I looked up and Pinkie was on the other side of the mug, no further than four inches away from my face.

“The mug shall live on,” she hissed at me. “But this—” She pointed to the puddle of coffee on the ground. “This dies with your refusal to eat delicious cupcakes. Long live the empire of the sweet.”

          I asked her what in the good name of the princess she meant and if she thought coffee was a bad thing to drink, to which she replied, “I am coffee and I’ve seen the bitter side of things. Larry here would rather have you pour hot chocolate into his cup than nasty coffee.”

I looked down at the dinosaur again. I never really considered his opinion on the matter, but that was because he was a dinosaur at the bottom of a coffee mug. She moved on with a whimsical humming and tossed a cupcake behind her which I caught. It was still too sweet for me, but I did take a dab of frosting off and put it up to the dinosaur’s mouth. He did look happier, and I couldn’t help but smile.