Why, hello again! It’s me, your dear friend and disgraced housecat, Princess Platinum. Not much has changed. Rarity’s still slaving over those dresses, my life is still miserable, and if I hear one more encore of Art of the Dress, I swear I’m going to scream.

I’ve always found spontaneous singing annoying. It’s nonsensical and unnecessary. Nevertheless, Father taught me at an early age that musical numbers are a natural occurring part of life. Birds must fly, the sun must shine, and ponies tend break out into song now and then.

I thought this was a humongous amount of bullocks until one day Clover the Clever scientifically explained the phenomenon to me. She told me that every single living organism in the universe that had the capacity to think was telepathically linked to a higher plane of semi-existence.

This plane is officially called the Extra-Astral Theoretical Collective Unconscious by the drull scientists and philosophers that study it to death, but the commoner’s name for it is simply Limbo.

Nothing really occupies Limbo. Nopony lives there. No physical matter can exist in it at all, in fact. It’s just a big, white room of nothingness that goes on forever. Nothing occurs there. Nothing happens. It’s only purpose is to touch the subconscious of everypony in creation.

That said, Limbo indirectly connects the minds of everypony alive. Think of it like Facebuck: If you’re friends with Limbo, you’re one connection away from everypony else, whether you know them or not. And believe me, everypony is friends with Limbo.

Now, here’s where the music comes in. For some reason that could probably be better explained by a string of Clover’s classic techno-babble, Limbo synchronizes all thoughts that pass into it to a massive, complex rhythm. This rhythm (or at least a small part of it) occasionally slips out of Limbo and directly into your brain, manifesting itself as a catchy tune that plays in the back of your head.

Before you know what you’re doing, you find yourself singing somthing or other about how you love to make everyone you meet smile. When you sing out loud, you psychically project the song into everypony that hears you, compelling them to join in. Suddenly, there’s an entire musical parade going through Mane Street because a little diddy popped into your head.

So, now you know that impromptu singing is the result of subliminal messages from another plane. Scary, huh?

But it’s not all bad. There’s a few benefits and uses to musical numbers. Like Rarity here, you could make the lyrics to the tune in your head about working at your job, making the working hours fly by. (And annoying your cat to death.) Food cart ponies at the marketplace sing songs about eating to mind-control their customers into buying their products. The possibilities are endless.

The most historical use of singing belonged to my great-grandfather, despite the fact that I can’t remember his name. During a grueling war between Unicornia and the horse kingdom of Saddle Arabia, he was inspired to break out into a twelve-hour sonnet in the midst of the final battle. Eventually, the enemy horses were forced to join in the musical fiasco, suddenly caring more about forming a can-can line than strategic battle positions. Soon, the my great-grandfather’s forces drove back drove back the Saddle Arabians by slaughtering them in the thousands and mercilessly outclassing their vocal chops. The song itself was afterward made into an instant classic, and was named Ow, I’ve Been Shot by an Arrow.

But enough about that. I still think singing is annoying, and I hate myself whenever I’m pulled into it. I’ve talked enough about that topic for now. Instead, let’s discuss what happened to Clover the Clever. From what I can gather, you all keep asking about her. Why do you care, anyway? She stabbed me with a knife!

...

Well, I suppose you have a point there. You’re right, I should finish my story. It would be rude to leave my listeners hanging, after all. Now, where were we?

Ah yes, I DIED. That was quite painful, by the way. You know, in case I haven’t mentioned that.

I awoke in a bed with broken, rusty springs. The blankets were unbearably itchy and smelled smelled like a ghastly combination body odor and mothballs. I opened my eyes and looked up at the ceiling, which was made out of old, moldy timberwood.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Clover’s voice said from the other side of the room. “How do you feel, Miss Merryweather?”

“Who?” I mumbled, my morning grogginess still holding my mind captive.

Clover put a hoof on my half-asleep body and nudged me. “Are you alright, Miss Merryweather? Do you... feel like yourself? I sure hope not...”

I was then that my brain snapped to attention as I remembered the unpleasant events that happened before I blacked out. Enraged at Clover, I shot out my hooves, wrapped them around her smartass little neck, and began choking her.

“YOU TRAITOROUS, DOUBLE-CROSSING BITCH! YOU STABBED ME IN THE BUCKING THROAT! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH THAT HURTS??”

Thinking fast, Clover used her magic to rip my vengeful forelegs off her person and dangled me in the air. Helplessly levitating upside-down, I kicked and flailed my hooves in manner that probably looked rather silly.

“RELEASE ME AT ONCE!” I shouted. “YOUR PRINCESS COMMANDS YOU! I SWEAR BY THE SWORD OF THE HOLY TITANS, I WILL HAVE YOU HANGED FOR TREASON!!!”

“Nice to have you back, Your Majesty,” Clover said sarcastically, rubbing her neck. “Now you be quiet please? You’re making too much noise, and you’ll make the innkeeper if you don’t stop yelling.”

“IF YOU DON’T DON’T PUT ME DOWN, I’LL YELL ALL CLOPPING DAY!”

“Promise not to choke me if I do?”

By now, my seething hatred for Clover the Clever boiled down from SHE-NEEDS-TO-DIE-RIGHT-FREAKING-NOW levels to I’ll-kill-her-later-because-she-needs-to-cook-me-breakfast-first levels. In short, I got back in control of my temper.

“Fine,” I said begrudgingly through gritted teeth. “I’ll stop screaming, and I won’t choke you. Happy? Now, put me down; all my blood is starting to rush to my head.”

After Clover set me down gently, I asked a few obvious questions. “Where are we, Clover? What happened? Why did you call me ‘Miss Merryweather?’”

As always, Clover answered them like a good little servant. “Where we are is back in the country of Equestria. A small village near the northern border, to be precise. You’d be surprised how much this nation has grown since we last were here. It’s almost as big as the United Democracy of Earth once was.

“I got into an inn for the night. You shouldn’t call me Clover in public, by the way. We’re still banished, and we have to keep our identities a secret.

“As for what happened, you died.”

“What?” I said, tilting my head to the side in confusion. “That’s not possible. If I died, how could I be standing here right now, speaking to you? That’s just...” I drifted off, noticing something painfully obvious.

“Clover...” I said slowly, looking down at my hooves, “...was my coat always this color?”

“You’re dead, remember?” Clover said matter-of-factly, “Your body is buried in snow back in the outskirts of the Crystal Empire. You’re not Princess Platinum anymore. Now, you’re Miss Merryweather, the innkeeper’s firstborn daughter.”

“Th-this is a joke, right?” I said with a nervous laugh.

She pointed to a full-length mirror near the door of bedroom. “See for yourself.’

I walked in front of the mirror and stared. I cringed immediately.

Let me take a moment to describe the gorgeous body that I born & raised in. I had the purest white coat that was massaged and tended to every day by the castle servants. My bleach-blond mane and tail were constantly pampered by the rarest and most expensive of shampoos and conditioners. I inherited my red eyes from my father, which glistened like rubies in the evening moonlight.

There was nothing that I valued more than preserving my appearance. I dieted and exercised every day of my life to keep my tall, slender figure. After giving birth to my son, I kept my routine to its physical limits to get rid of every last ounce of that utterly disgraceful post-baby weight. When my age grew past its prime, I applied only the most scientifically advanced aging creams to prevent any slightest notion of... ugh... I can’t even bear to say the word... W-R-I-N-K-L-E-S.

Back when we first took over the Crystal Empire, every single day was like heaven for me. The crystal ponies had everything at their spa: hooficures, mud baths, aromatherapy, and they even invented vibrating chairs! I was so grateful, I shared my beauty tips with them. Combining our collective knowledge of cosmetics, we created the perfect manestyle: the Royal Headdress. Of course, I had to pass a law saying that only the princess of the Crystal Empire (namely, me) could style her mane that way. Wouldn’t want to go to the ball with somepony there looking exactly the same as myself, now would I?

The beauty of yours truly didn’t stop with new manestyles, either. As a resident of the Crystal Empire, I was turned into a crystal pony myself. I couldn’t get enough on how much I sparkled. It looked like I made of living diamonds! (Not to mention that my shininess made it hard to spot *shudder* the W-word.) I ordered the Royal Dressmaker to sew me a brand-new crystallized dress every single morning to match my glory. By the time Clover and I escaped, I was fifty-seven years old and didn’t look a day over twenty-three. I was that fabulous.

I didn’t look like that anymore.

I was now a dirty shade of beige, one that reminded me of whole-wheat bread. My mane was the color of buffalo droppings, which was tied up in a singular, country-girl braid. My eyes were an unimpressive shade of baby-barf-green. There was no indication that I ever had a horn. I turned to my side, inspecting my new body with greater detail. I now possessed the badly-groomed wings of a pegasus. My old cutie mark (a lovely design of a platinum crown) was replaced to my horror with a boring rain cloud and a stupid-looking smiley face on it.

“What did you do to me!?” I yelped. I was getting frightened of the reflection staring back at me.

“I tried to tell you, Your Majesty,” Clover smoothly explained, “the route to immortality always has a price to be paid.”

I took a deep breath, trying extremely hard to keep my promise over not strangling her again. “Clover,” I said sternly, “I want you to tell me exactly what your spell did.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” my royal advisor said smugly. She pointed to my neck. “See that jewel you’re wearing?”

I looked in the mirror again. When I was busy taking in my new appearance, I missed one seemingly insignificant detail: I was apparently wearing a velvet choker snugly around my neck, adorned by a magnificent, finely-cut gem in the center.

“That is what the crystal ponies call a soul gem,” she continued. “Like the name implies, it now contains your soul. The natives never actually used these for containing the spirit of a pony before, mind you. They mostly used these things for harvesting the souls of animals (such as frost trolls or mammoths) and using the gem’s energy to power magical artifacts. You know, like axes that do fire damage or vibrating chairs.

“I simply took the next step in soul gem technology: I enchanted that choker with a personal spell that I invented, so whomever is wearing will be possessed by the soul trapped in the gemstone, namely you.

“After I ‘killed’ you, I traveled south to the first backwater town I could find, rented a room at this inn, met Miss Merryweather while she was serving drinks at the bar downstairs, found out which room she stayed in via some old-fashioned stalking, went to her bedroom when everypony was asleep, put the choker on her, and waited for you to wake up to see if see if the spell worked.”

I gave what she just said some serious thought. “So... mind-controlling crystals? Really? That’s the way we’re supposed to live forever? Jumping from body to body, taking over innocent ponies? Isn’t that... you know... wrong?”

Clover shifted her posture, her expression showing a faint but clear sign of uncertainty and guilt. “I admit, it’s not my most... ethical course of action,” she mumbled. She looked at me, her gaze containing a hint of anxiety, but still was strong and unfaltering. I think that was the first time in Clover’s life that she didn’t have a clear idea of what she was getting into, and she was taking it like a pro. It was because of times like this I secretly harbor a great deal of respect for that mare’s sense of resilience. “You have to understand that this wasn’t my first option. I tried every single spell in the book before I chose the soul gems. It was either this, or signing a blood pact with the Queen of Tartarus.”

There was a pregnant pause. I spoke up. “So, what happens now?”

She handed me an all-too-familiar-looking knife. “Now, it’s my turn to die,” she said as she pulled out a second item from her pocket. It was a small, silver bracelet with a single soul gem embedded in it. Next, her horn illuminated, and there was a brilliant flash of magic.

“Just be sure to make it fast. The spell only works if you kill me in the next five sec-ACK!”

Yes, I stabbed her mid-sentence. She didn’t exactly have to tell me twice. I was still a teensy bit mad at her, after all. So, you would understand if I stabbed her twice juuuust to make sure she was dead.

Okay, maybe three times.

Fine, it was four.

Now that I think about it, I kinda lost track. Was it fifteen or twenty? Nevermind, it worked all the same.

Have you ever seen a real soul float in midair? It’s an amazing sight. Clover’s soul was whirlwind of blues and violets, quickly being sucked into the bracelet she had self-prepared. It looked as if a tornado and the Northern Lights had a baby, and then strapped that baby to a collection of the world’s most spectacular fireworks. As soon as the extravaganza of colors had started, it was over.

Clover the Clever was now immortal.

It was at this precise moment that the innkeeper had decided to barge into the bedroom and ask Merryweather why it was taking so long for her to get out of bed. What he saw was a dead body on the floor and his eldest daughter clutching a bloody knife.

It didn’t look good.

“Merryweather, it’s time to wake-SWEET CELESTIA’S HOLY CROWN, WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!?”

I opened my mouth to speak. “Uhh...” I looked at myself. Slicing up Clover had left me drenched in 81% of her blood and a few trace pieces of her kidney. If I was wearing any clothing (besides my magical stainless choker) it would’ve been soaked beyond the point of wearing. I desperately needed a way out of this. Fortunately, I had developed into a compulsive liar early in my foalhood.

“Oh Papa, it was terrible!” I wailed, bursting into a fit of crocodile tears. “This lesbian tried to RAPE me in my sleep! I woke up and tried to call for you, but she threatened me with a knife! And then... and th-then... *sniff* OH PAPA, IT HAPPENED SO FAST!!! I’ve killed a pony! I need your loving embrace to comfort me!”

To my incredible luck, three coincidental facts were present that allowed me to be 100% forgiven for murder, no questions asked:

1. The pony in front of me was actually Merryweather’s father, and not somepony else, such as one of her older brothers or whatever.

2. Merryweather coincidentally always called him ‘Papa,’ and not something else like ‘Father Dearest’ or ‘Daddy-O.’

3. My so-called father bought my story hook, line & sinker.

Rushing to my side, he hugged me protectively. He was confused and scared, but the old guy had a very strong opinion of his daughter. Trust me, I could tell from how tightly he squeezed me. That hug was NOT healthy for my new spine.

“It’s okay, s-sweetie,” he said between sobs, “Papa’s here n-now,” He sniffled. “We’ll... uhh... hide the body! Yeah, that’s a good idea. It’s be like this never happened.”

I was perfectly fine with this option, but I was not fine with going on to work in a grimy old inn for the rest of Merryweather’s life. I had bigger plans. I wanted more. That was pretty much the gist of the years to come: Always wanting more. But enough of that; I’m getting ahead of myself.

“But Papa,” I said, fake tears still streaming down my face, “you don’t understand; I’ve committed murder! The law will catch up with us, and I’ll be thrown in the dungeon!”

“They won’t,” he said sternly, “I promise you, they will never lay a hoof on you. I will fight off the entire Royal Guard before that happens.”

“Papa, please understand! You can’t imagine the weight of my actions!” I begged, putting a considerable effort in my performance. I’m rather proud of my acting skills, if I do say so myself. “Even if we never get caught, I’ll still be living a horrible lie! I just can’t look in the faces of the neighbors I grew up with, knowing that I took a life!”

Now, ‘Papa’ was looking baffled. I don’t believe he ever had Merryweather disagree with him on anything before. (I later used this assumption as evidence to conclude that Merryweather was a complete loser.)

“What should we do?” he wondered aloud.

“I’m afraid that I must run away, Papa,” I said dramatically. “I’ll change my name, start a new life in the big city!”

“You can’t!” he gasped. “You have no money of your own.”

“You’ll have to give me half the inn’s funds,” I said, “Or maybe three quarters. That should be enough to start a new life, right?”

Now, a more clever pony would be at least a bit suspicious at that last remark, but judging by the fact that the innkeeper hadn’t noticed that his daughter was wearing a choker that he’d never seen before in his life, it would be safe to say that he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“You can have as much money as you want, Merryweather.”

Thirty minutes later, I was gleefully skipping down the closest road to the next town over, my saddlebags filled to the brim with bits.

Unfortunately, I have to cut that story short again. Rarity’s friends have come over to inspect their new eveningwear.

“Thank you all for gathering here, my little ponies,” Rarity says with a brush of pride. “I have to say, you’re going to absolutely love the way you look. I’ve really outdone myself this time.”

“You didn’t use any lace on mine, did you?” Rainbow Dash questions. “That stuff itches like crazy.”

“No lace, I assure you,” nods Rarity. “Besides, I used my entire supply of lace on my own gown, and that’s not even finished yet.”

“So, where’s the dresses?” asks Pinkie Pie. “Is mine edible? OOO! Is is chocolate-flavored?”

Rarity thankfully ignores Pinkie’s last two questions, and instead answers the first one. “Your outfits are right here under these sheets.” She gestures to a array of mannikins hidden under various white cloths. “But I don’t want to reveal them just yet. There’s this new trend that I’ve always wanted to try out personally.” She holds up a magazine and shows her guests a certain article. “It’s called the Flash Fashion spell. Bascially, I just magic the clothes on all of you, and then you can tell me what you think. It saves a heap of time in the dressing room, and it’s all the rage in Canterlot!”

“Well, that sounds kinda fun,” Fluttershy says, nodding her head. “Just give me a second to mentally prepare myself and then you can-*eep!*”

Apparently, the Flash Fashion spell doesn’t use any form of teleportation. What it uses instead is an insanely rapid version of automatic telekinesis. The outfits Rarity made spring to life, fly across the room, at breakneck speeds, and proceed to slip, wrap, bundle, buckle, fold, constrict, and strangle themselves onto her friends in ultrafast, unpredictable motions. Hair brushes, curlers, and mane extensions join the frenzy, stylizing each mane and tail to match the respective outfit each pony was being forced to try on. The spectacle looks like the six ponies are being assaulted by a merciless ninja wardrobe.

When the dust clears, I see that the spell was a complete success, no matter how uncomfortable it must’ve been.

“Never. Do. That. Again,” wheezes Trixie, exhausted from struggling against the spell.

“Am Ah wearin’ panties under this?” asks Applejack. “Mah hindquarters feel all... ticklish.”

“WEEE!!!” Pinkie squeals. “That was fun! Can we do that just one more time?”

Rainbow Dash is muttering something to herself about she expected her dress to be sexier. In contrast, Fluttershy says nothing, mostly because she’s too busy shivering in fetal position. This is the third time she’s been in fetal position in public this month, so nopony really pays attention to her.

Dusk Shine looks into one of the many mirrors Carousel Boutique has. He has an unsatisfied look on his face.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Rarity says with concern. “Don’t you like the suit that I made for you?”

“No Rarity, it’s fine,” he insists. “Don’t mind me, really.”

“Star-crossed lovers can sense when they’re lying to each other, you know,” she says. This little remark gets a few angry glares from more than half the ponies in the room, but as usual, Rarity doesn’t appear to give a damn. Her eyes are only on Dusk.

“The suit is fine,” he says, putting on a fake smile. “Honest. Don’t have a problem with it at all.”

“Nonsense,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve ran a clothing store long enough to tell when a client is unsatisfied with one of my designs.” She places a hoof on his shoulder. “All of these are custom orders, Dusk. If you are in any way unsatisfied with what your suit looks like, you’re perfectly allowed to make all the design changes you want. It’s certainly no skin off my back.”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind if I make a few tweaks?”

“But of course not!” she says, giving him a hug. An honest-to-goodness hug. No sexual implication whatsoever. Who is this pony, and what has she done with Rarity?

“In that case,” pipes up Fluttershy, now somehow fully recovered from her state of shock, “there’s a few changes I’d like to make to my dress.”

“Yeah, me too,” adds Rainbow.

“Me three!” says Pinkie.

“The Great and Powerful Trixie wants her dress to have more stars!”

Erm... I’ll have to get back to you later. I just wanna watch how this plays out, and narrating everything I see is getting to be a chore.

That’s your cue to go.

...

Seriously, go away. Out. Away with you. Your princess needs her privacy.