One rule of life that I have always been accustomed to is that he who has money, has allies. Also that house guests and fish have a common problem of being difficult to stand after three days. As generous as she is, I decided that I cannot live off of Rarity's generosity indefinitely. So to keep from becoming a burden and to be able to garner some assistance from the right sources, I will have to collect some money. That is what I have been doing for the past two days while I have neglected to write in my journal.

Before I began my painstaking search for employment, however, I made sure to stop by Sugar Cube Corner once again to apologize personally for the misunderstanding of the party that I had walked (ran screaming) out on. Ms. (Pinkie) Pie is not a very understanding individual from what I gather, but she is at least very amiable and quick to forgive a transgression such as mine.

I say she lacks understanding only because she had no idea as to why I might mistake ponies with ropes hanging from the ceiling, knives, and torches to be anything other than potential friends.

I personally enjoyed the short chat we were able to have which was almost entirely her jawing at me in a squeaky, hyperactive voice about what she thought of me. The other part of it was that she offered me a wrapped-up slice of cake that remained from the one she had prepared for my welcoming party. The cake was chocolate, to which I am mildly allergic. It was worth an uncomfortable case of hives for the afternoon, however, and eating it saved me from having to be anymore ungrateful towards her hospitality.

I also received her welcoming gift to me. Back where I am from, we consider a welcoming gift to typically be a piece of decoration. small furniture item, cooking wear, or anything else that could be considered helpful to someone seeking to make residence in a new place. I am still trying to decide if this could be considered similar: I was given a small, metal-bound booklet (much like an expensive address book) that each page has a single name on it with a blank area beneath for notes. I notice that the listings are currently in alphabetical order and a few pages already have entries on them. Judging by the handwriting, each of these are by different individuals. There are blank pages at the end of the booklet, and it seems the interior rings that hold the pages can be partially dismantled to arrange the pages as needed, in case I must add new entries. I think I was supposed to receive this gift at the party and use it as an aid to learn something about each of the partygoers to make some social connections more easily.

I'm both astounded at the creativity of the gift, and a bit touched at the consideration that must have gone into it, though I question how much use it will receive since I am hoping to not be stuck in this place called Equestria for very long. It is certainly still worth holding onto as I never know when I might have a need for it.

Economy Discovery: I have made note already in this journal that the form of currency used here is known as a "bit". I had yet to decide the actual worth of a bit, and stated that I would provide an estimation of a conversion rate. One example I believe I could use would be apples. Apples are a very common food source in this region, and it seems that a basket of apples (around two dozen) has a retail price of four bits. That would be approximately 6 apples for a bit. An apple in a supermarket back on Terriel, as you may know, is usually sold for an average retail price of 50 UCs (if you are buying name brands). I can estimate then that a bit must be worth approximately 300 UCs. This is all very subjective, however, considering the 'worth' of some items will certainly vary from that on Terriel due to cultural differences: For example, clothing is an expensive luxury item here instead of a necessity as it is back home.

Currency, in an ideal sense, is meant to represent the value of the amount of work an individual has accomplished to be used to acquire wanted goods from alternate sources other than the individual they are offering their services to. This means that to obtain currency I must work, but aside from writing papers for some lazy students back in school for 1000 UCs each and completing some of their homework assignments for side money, I have never had a job. My technological savvy is of little use in this place as this seems to be an archaic society focused on physical labor and manual artisanship, so that is out of the question. I will simply have to try to find new skills of mine to market here.

It seems that most are wary of hiring a human to work for them, even for something as simple as custodial work. The few shops I visited and asked if they needed assistance informed me that they were not looking to hire. I would hope this is because they were fully staffed, but it is much more likely that I am still a bit too strange for most to feel comfortable representing their establishments. They did at least smile at me and turn me away politely, but acceptance must not mean they will trust me with their reputation.

I was told at Sugar Cube Corner by the proprietors, Mr. and Mrs. Cake, that I could work there part-time during the busy hours, which was very generous of them. They had asked if I knew how to bake and I said yes (to make a good impression). It was a lie, but how hard can it be to make cookies and donuts? If a horse can do it, then certainly a pseudo-futuristic intellect such as mine can grasp the concept and master the art. The Cakes quickly learned that I had lied, however, for only a couple of hours later there was black smoke throughout the building, and I had lit my arm on fire. I am glad I had taken off my coat so that I did not ruin the clothing Rarity made me, but the hair that was left on my arm after the Crusaders were done with their first aid training was now singed off. Needless to say, I am no longer employed at Sugar Cube Corner.

When I marched my way into the library, I was surprised to be assaulted by a shocked gasp and an excited squeal at my presence. Ms. Sparkle, whom I had not seen since she returned my journal to me, had a grin on her face spanning the entire length between her perked up ears. She dragged a chair across the floor with her horn's grasp to offer it to me and struggled to collect her thoughts on such short notice. Had she wanted to meet with me that badly, I questioned. Much like a dog with a rawhide chew, she was ecstatic to jaw at me in the form of many questions that she had been dying to ask once I was comfortably adjusted to the area. I do not know if I will ever be quite comfortably adjusted enough to answer all of her questions, but I had to turn her down this time because I was busy on a job search. Speaking of a dog with a chew toy, it seemed like I had just whacked her across the nose with my rolled up journal when her eyes widened and ears folded back. With an apology, she let me stand back up to ask her if she had a job opening available that I could apply for – no, she has an assistant already: That puce prick Spike. The two of us exchanged glowers before he asked me, "Just how many of my roles are you going to try to take?" and then went about his business of carrying an unsorted pile of parchment with him up a stairwell. I am rather glad I was turned down; I did not want to work with him anyway.

Many failed attempts at the stalls lining the streets to get some work from them later, I finally made my way to the town hall and requested if the mayor was in. She had told me that if I needed anything that I could call upon her. The mayor was not in, but the secretary was kind enough to inform me that, no, I could not have her job before ushering me out angrily (even though I had never intended to do so; there must not be many positions open).

Feeling down on my luck and desperate for any kind of break in the cycle of failure, I wandered back to Sweet Apple Acres to ask if they needed another farmhand. I am not notably strong or suited for the task of manual labor, but perhaps I could make do there. Macintosh greeted me with a serene smile when I arrived through the gate. When I asked if he knew whether or not I could get hired on as help, he glanced me over with an amused grin. He obviously thinks that I am not quite up to the task either, but out of kindness told me that they could think of something for me to do.

I spent the first part of the day trying to drag a plow behind me (pathetically) while Mac just kept telling me to "Keep tryin'," each time he would pass by me on his own quick-paced tilling. Grunts, groans, strains, squeaks, and the occasional honk escaped as I pointlessly pushed at the plow for nearly two hours. After realizing that I was never going to get the damn thing to budge, they decided that perhaps I would be better off doing some processing instead of fieldwork. I spent the rest of my day at a hand-operated quern grinding wheat into flour.

The next day, I started to feel as though I was a failure since I spent a fair part of my day trying to move the same plow again with miserable results. The idea came to mind that perhaps if I could move a heavy grinding stone with the leverage of a hand-operated crank, I could easily get this plow across the field using the same simple machine, but it would take too much time and material just to plow one line of the field by myself. I was thankful for Mac, who still encouraged me with a small cheer as I pressed and grunted and strained uselessly. I finally found that grabbing the plow and walking backwards with it, though terribly slow, did allow me a bit more leverage to use, and I am proud to say that by the time the sun went down, I got that plow across the field – once. I got one line done. In twice the amount of time it took Mac himself to do maybe twenty (it seemed like hundreds with how many times he told me to 'keep it up' as he passed), I got a single line plowed.

It is currently many hours after I had begun to write this entry as I have had to pause for a long while. It was because I had a visitor here in the barn tonight: I decided to sleep here instead of walking all the way back to the Carousel Boutique. I was simply too sore and too exhausted to bother being told I had to bathe or be interrogated as to why I had dirt all over my fine clothes. I did not think my legs would get me all the way there, and I would rather sleep in the safety of a pile of hay than in the grass next to a road on my way back. My guest was Applejack, who caught me writing in my journal once again. She was carrying a blanket on her back and a pillow in her mouth that she threw down for me.

"Hey," she called to me as I was busy writing. I was attempting to finish my sentence before I looked up to avoid losing my place, but she stepped forward and put her hoof on my notebook to gather my attention with, "Hey, put that thing down fer a minute."

"Sorry, I just didn't want to lose my thought," I tried to explain as I looked up.

"I wanted to tell ya somethin' Benjamen, so think you c'n stop writin' in that darn book long enough t’give me a minute of you're time?"

"Of course," I agreed as I set it away and folded my hands. I was rather curious what she had to say.

"I wanted to say... well, that I'm sorry." The orange horse paused as she looked back at the pillow atop the pile of straw, pushing it up into proper position. "I know that I've been real distrustful of ya recently, but at that party and what I heard from Rainbow, well, I reckon you're just as scared of us as we are of you." She then chuckled, and added, "Probably more than we are of you. Not to mention Rarity had nothin' but good things to say about you. Called ya a real fine gentlecolt."

"I suppose compliments are something else that you ponies will not let me refuse," I murmured to her as I stood up to help her shuffle the hay back into the pile.

"Heard ya got somethin' done today. You do good work, Ben."

"I appreciate the encouragement, but you don't have to lie to spare my feelings. I know that I'm failing horribly at being a farmhand."

Applejack smiled at me as she sat herself upright against the barn wall that I had been sitting against to write. "Well, the fellas at least thought you were real entertainin', and ya kept 'em smilin' all day. Heck, that's gotta count fer somethin’." I get the feeling she was patronizing me because I had at least put all of my effort into it, and she might just be kind to someone she can see is having a rough time of it. "Aside... I get the feelin' that you're the thinkin' type, not really suited for this kinda work."

"Well, thank you. That does mean something to me." To know I wasn't a complete failure right then did ease a bit of my dour mood. "I am afraid that being a thinking type is not helping me be of any use though."

"What's with that book anyways? Why are you always writin' in that thing so much?"

I explained to her that it was a journal in which I was recording my days. She asked me why that would be important and if I could just remember what was happening instead. Honestly, no: I could not remember it if I did not keep this journal. Two of the main reasons I continue to jot my excursions down in here are: First, I still cannot fully believe or understand what is happening, and I believe that my confusion will let me forget some important details; and second, because perhaps if someone reads the whole account, they will be more likely to believe I am telling the truth and not just call for me to be committed to an asylum. I can only hope that this journal will defend my sanity in the future.

Applejack and I continued to speak for a while as she let me get my journal once again and finish the above paragraph about how I plowed through the field. I am not sure if she is illiterate or not though; I did not think it would be proper to ask, but I noticed that she was just staring at the page quietly for long periods. I fear it is either that, or she is just not very practiced at reading. I will not hold that against her; however, reading is not something that would help her with her work anyway.

Finally, she stood up and headed towards the door informing me that she had best get to bed before it got any later. Early to bed and early to rise would make a mare healthy, wealthy and wise. "I feel kinda bad with you sleepin' out here in the barn, Ben. Ya know that you can come on in the house if you want, right?"

"I had assumed that there were no spare beds in there, Applejack."

She looked down in thought for a moment, before shrugging towards me with a strange smile. "I s'pose you're right then. Who knows, maybe since you're a thinkin' type you could come up with somethin' to make it work. G'night, Ben. We'll getcha some work more suited for ya tomorrow."

If I didn't know any better, I could swear that-. In case my notebook here falls into the hands of another pony, I am going to keep my thoughts on this to myself actually. I could think of something though. As odd as it is, and as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, there are some options for sleeping in that house instead of this barn.

I will say that it is cold and a little lonely out here tonight. At least I can hear another one of Jeremy Prowler's songs in my head now. Even if he is singing about what he wants to see her do, see her do, see her do as she grinds that pole all night long, at least his voice is something familiar to keep me company. I will personally enroll him in a lyricist course when I get back though. Or a frontal lobotomy.