I'm Half-Crazy; All I Can Think of Is...
A/N: How long can flowers bloom without water? What is the last word of this chapter supposed to be?
Daisy, Lily, Give Me Your Answer Do
The sun is shining. Pegasi are clearing the clouds away for the start of a beautiful day. There is even a flute playing somewhere unseen. The melody is so calming and relaxing. There is no way that this day could be better.
“Daisy!”
Unfortunately, I am not kidding dot com. The day is about to get worse for a certain pony whose cutie mark matches her name and the flower. At the very least, it’s about to get more annoying.
“Daisy! Daisy! Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!”
The broken record shouting is finally enough to break her concentration on properly pulling weeds. One of her sunflowers gets knocked over in her frustration. Surrendering to the jumping and pestering unicorn behind her, Daisy lets out a sigh and turns around.
“What seems to be the problem now, Lyra?”
“Bon Bon wanted me to give her an honest opinion regarding her most recent creation and I need to know: what… is carnauba wax?”
Daisy looks at Lyra as if a second horn grew out of her head. Although, that mental image isn’t nearly as weird as the question posed before her.
“Cara-what wax?” Daisy attempts to echo, “I’m not a confectionary expert and artist. I’m a garden botanist. Those aren’t even similar.”
“Or are they?” Lyra strokes her chin in thought.
Daisy slowly lifts a hoof over her eyes and frowns.
A pleasant chord progression is playing. It is coming from a combination of a finely tuned harpsichord and a soft ocarina somewhere out of sight. The good morning and cheer are enough to begin any pony’s day properly. Even the sky is a pleasant blue. This is the best the day can be.
“Lily! Lily! Lily! Lily! Lily!”
Sadly, I am quite serious, believe it or not. That is the best that the day can be. It can only go downhill from here. A voice equivalent to a hiccupping zipper shakes the eardrums of any individual nearby. That individual just so happens to be the pony with the aforementioned name, cutie mark, and hairpiece.
Lily turns away from her tulips to look at the interrupting pegasus.
“What is it, Flitter?”
“If I may be blunt with you,” Flitter begins, “is it possible that I’m a fraternal twin instead of an identical twin with Cloudchaser?”
Lily sputters in flabbergast.
“Why are you asking me about something like that? Didn’t your parents or doctor tell you?”
Flitter blushes sheepishly. “Well, you seem to know more than the rest of Ponyville about things and… no, they didn’t.”
Lily shakes her head in disbelief and returns to her daily chores.
Daisy sets up her pots and pans display at the marketplace. After reviewing her insurance policy regarding denture caused damage, she puts on her best sales’ pitch face and a welcoming hoof to all eyes that care to browse her wares. But the eyes in question seem to have some purple shades blocking their view.
“Yo, Daisy! Which pair of these pans would make the best cymbals?”
A cough escapes Daisy before she can respond to that.
“Vinyl, that is so ridiculous,” she criticizes, “Why would you use pans for cymbals instead of… you know, cymbals?”
“Well, duh.” Vinyl rolls her eyes behind her shades. “I’d do it because nobody else was cool enough to try that yet.”
The empty space of table receives a physical greeting with Daisy’s face.
As Lily goes browsing for a new fertilizer, someone calls for her using the title ‘pony with the sickly green mane’. She ignores the voice for a lack of respect, but then decides to give the heckler a piece of her mind. So, she trots over closer to the tomato stand.
“By any chance,” starts the salesmare, “would you happen to know how many of Japon’s yen are in a single bit?”
“I’m not a currency exchange rate system,” points out Lily, “What I do know is that three bits is too much for tomatoes.”
“Okay, wise girl, what is the right price?” retorts the snarky pony.
“Figure it out yourself!” exclaims Lily as she storms out of the market without the fertilizer that she originally came in to get.
The day is not yet done. Some other ponies decide that advice from Twilight isn’t good enough. They turn to the more common pony.
“Daisy, do you have the time?”
It isn’t even late afternoon before various Ponyvillians pile on the questions.
“Lily, are manes naturally colorful or does every pony dye them?”
“Are you my mother?”
“Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Seed Street?”
"What is the meaning of life?"
"What is the meaning of our existence?"
“Daisy? Lily? Daisy! Lily!”
“Arrgh!” Daisy lets out a frustrated cry.
“Enough!” Lily yells in fury.
“If you’re that desperate for answers,” fumes Daisy.
“Then here’s what you ought to do,” seethes Lily.
“Go…”
“… ask…”
“… her!” They point their hooves toward the house that holds all the answers.
There’s a knock on the door. The single pony resident opens the door and opens her eyes wide at the sight of so many ponies gathered out front. Her jaw nearly drops to the ground before she stops herself. She closes her eyes, lowers her head, and lets out a sigh. Is it really the third Wednesday of the month again? That seems to be the only time that nothing extraneously crazy happens in this town. It's only the normal amount of crazy.
As per usual, she looks at each pony as they trot forward in an orderly mob fashion. She takes a deep breath before rambling.
“It comes from the leaves of the Copernicia prunifera palm native to the Rio Grande do Horsé. No, confectionary and gardening are not similar. Your DNA matches Cloudchaser enough for you to be identical twins. Brass is a better metal for cymbals than stainless steel or iron. Approximately one hundred yen equals one bit. The right price is one and a half bits. No, she doesn’t even wear a watch. Some ponies use dye while others don’t. No, she isn’t. Go straight for 100 feet and take the second left after that. Forty-two. Destiny. Yes, those are their names.”
The crowd disperses and returns to their usual routines. She is satisfied with another job well done, but there is still one pony left opening their mouth to ask something. But the holder of wisdom beats that one pony to the punch.
“It depends on the type of flower. The last word is ‘You’.”
“Okie dokie loki,” nods Pinkie Pie before she bounces away.
Sighing in relief, Roseluck heads back inside and gently shuts her front door.
Author's Note
I think I need help. Although, I have no idea what form that help should take.
