My life is a blank slate. Nothing interesting has ever happened to me, save the cruise I took in first grade. When teachers ask us to partner up and share a cool thing you've done, I'm drawn ablank. The only mark on the white canvas of my life is my secret habit of singing loudly in the shower, being able to play piano by ear and acting.

I'd like to think I'm a good singer, but the oblivious looks I get after my toes are pruned from standing under running water so long.

"You were singing," they would say casually.

"Got that right," I would reply. Or I would say, "Damn straight!" if it were my dad.

Then they would frown ever so slightly and go back to doing whatever. Reading, watching TV, knitting. And I would dry my long blonde hair and skech ponies or catch up on missing work.

It stings every time. They don't say I'm good, or I should try the lead in the latest musical at school.

They just go back to their lives, forsaking my emotions.

But one thing the onlookers do murmur after my recitals. Though, of course, they never know the songs. Once I played Daddy Discord on the streets for some spare Georges. They couldn't guess it, even when offered half of my earnings.

I do go to nearby brony get-togethers, though I miss out on all the good stuff. Like at Canterlot Gardens, I was busy arguing with some sweaty manchild dressed as Discord with really bad pit stains when the Almighty Queeen of Trolls, Tara Strong appeared cosplaying her unicorn avatar for the first time. I about pissed myself when it hit YouTube. I screamed for about ten minutes until my mom swung my white bedroom door in, demanding to know what the damn fuss was about. I shoved my Kindle under a pillow and said I saw a spider. Those demonic spawn should have kerosine dumped in a squirming pile of it's entire species and have a lot match 'accidentally' dropped upon it. Then have a Boeing crash into it. Then the Titanic thrown on it.

You get the idea, right?

...

Heheh, needless to say, spiders are the bane of my existence. Squared.

Now what?

Oh right, I should describe my stage time. It's the one thing besides the faux admiration from my pony drawings that I gain respect from. Being on the freshly waxed maple stage with audience packed in like sardines, spotlights from lesser actors and actresses highlighting my every move, my every line, the feeling I get... there's nothing in the world like it. I feel like a ballerina, except severely lacking in the elegance department. Seriously, I've fallen down the stairs. Three times. In one day. I should consider a career in dance, what with my weird hopping and Cotton Eyed Joe dance, I could be a STAR, baby!

...

Back to acting. A thing about myself is that I have a really bad time in talent shows, for singing. I falter halfway through the song and I know I've lost them. But when I'm up there, it's just me and- is that Daniel Tosh? No, that weird manchild has good fashion sense.

The auditorium just kinda... fades away, if you will. It's Charlie and Wonka. Harry and Dumbledore. You and getting the idea already.

Now to my physical appearance. My human one, mind you. Not some shitty-ass ghost horse. I was blonde. I had blue eyes, like blue fire, my mom once said. I had faint freckles on fair skin that burned like popcorn in with the turkey at Thanksgiving. I was short and had a problem with getting zits in the corners of my mouth and the left crevice of my schnozzola. My lips are average sized, but have been known to be crimson red for no apparent reason. I had recently quit biting my nails, a habit I developed in the third grade. I had boobs. No, I'm not a gender swap patient, I was BORN and intend to REMAIN a woman. My tummy was squishy. I was not fat. I just didn't have my abs quite as defined as I'd like them to have been. If you so much as said I was a chunky monkey, you would find yourself being drop kicked into the stratoshpere before your jimmies knew they were rustled. My legs were average length, but toned with muscles gathered from years of diving. Yes, I adore obscure sports. Skulling? I rock the boat. Archery? I'm Katniss, motherfucker. Fencing? Eat my foil.

Now to ponies. When people are gushing about how adorable Fluttershy is on the interwebz, I shake my head and say, out loud, "That's not how you say Rainbow Dash."

Most of my drawing ponies looks like a mixture of gen 3 and 4 in a margarita shaker. Not 3.5, that is the other bane of my existence. Wait, can you had more than one bane? Eh, whatever.

I like movies. I heard there was going to be a Friendship is Magic movie when Tau Sunflare was on the crew. Now it's cancelled. Dammit.

So... socially. I'm not exactly a social leper, but I'm not quite one of the pothead drag queens that run this hellhole. I'm somewhere in between. Don't get me wrong, I have friends and willingly kiss ass to be more popular, but... but... argh, I have friends, your argument is invalid. Now go make me a sammich. Now, bitch!

Rainbow Dash is best pony. I'm a lot like her, so there. Makes her about forty-three and six hundred thirty-four thousand, eight hundred and sixteen percent cooler. I'm like Twilight, also, if you haven't figured it out. Dumbass. I tend to disregard my rational side at a friend's house and... well, do stupid shit. Once I jumped off a moving golf cart during a mud bog. Then I climbed aboard the donated short bus for a ride. I think it's unnecessary to tell you what happens next. So, when compared to the Mane Six, I'm like a Pinklight Dash. Or a Rainpie Sparkle. Or a Twilightbow Pie. Or--

I'll shut up now.

If you're wondering why I'm swearing so much, it's because of stress. Read the fucking post on my Twitter. Oh wait, I don't have Twitter any more. I have motherfucking hooves, bitches. You're jealous of my non-thumbness. Haters gonna hate.

Actually, the stress is how I got in this mess after all... Next Chapter: I die Estimated time remaining: 1 Minutes