Pink—ninety-nine, tufts of cotton candy delight—your mane, a bounce, kind of a like a pop, repeating. Reminds me of sugar; I can taste it looking at you. A burst of energy and life, and a smile—because I can’t ever forget to smile when I see you.
Pinkie. Pie. I wonder, if I baked a pie, and it’s made of pink, does it taste like you? (Sorry, that was embarassing.) You seem so distant and disconnected when I think of intimacy—yet, when I think of warmth and togetherness, no one more quickly comes to mind.
Who are you, Pinkie? What’s going on in your head? What does it mean when you appear, and ninety-nine pink balloons go by?
Love is a funny word, because I’m not sure what it means. You seem pretty confident about it, yet you’re the one who breaks my confidence. One thing I’m sure of: I *love* you.
So tell me, what do I feel?
An overwhelming desire to taste your mane, and see if it will dissolve in my mouth. Somehow, I always come back to this. Maybe I’m dodging the question—or maybe this desire is very real. I bet you’d have an answer if I asked; I bet you’d let me see for myself.
Pinkie Pinkie Pinkie, I admire you down to every frame of your walk cycle, bouncing, weightless, on the ninety-nine pink balloons in flight; none of them even sink, they just keep going, holding your weight like it’s nothing; and how much did you eat today? Are you kidding me? Mrs. Cake must hate you sometimes (note to self: Mrs. Cake must NEVER READ THIS.)
I don’t mean to tease—I’m only genuinely concerned and interested, because I really want to understand. I ask around, and I always hear, “she’s just Pinkie,” and, “that’s so Pinkie,” and I’m wondering if “Pinkie” is actually a word without synonym. And now again, I’ve got that taste in my mouth just from saying it. They say I shouldn’t drink so much soda—I wonder if you’re just as bad for my health.
I can only say this: I saw the other day, on Stirrup Street, when you were throwing that party. I didn’t get to go, because I wasn’t feeling well. I had to leave the house to pick up soda, and I passed by Sugarcube Corner. I was there right at the moment before the party began, when everyone was waiting outside, wondering why you weren’t letting them in. They weren’t mad, because they knew you were up to something. And then, at once, all of the windows and doors shot open, and ninety-nine pink balloons came sailing out of every hole, to a cacophony of cheers from the croud.
And at once, before I gave thought to the mechanisms of this magic trick, or started to really wish that I could be at this party, the first thing I thought of was cotton candy; the taste of sugar; and love.
- Digibrony in Ponyville, 3:10–3:24