Less than little

She was predisposed toward spitting up. That was one quality that had always stuck with her through the weather. And she was flesh, too much flesh. Excess never desirable, least of all on her. Her coat, what color this time? Settle on pink. Pinkie Pie on her spiral, bad habits of old making their reappearance, consequence as a form of vengeance. And her coat, that was still intact on the whole, pink as ever. Otherwise she would just look double a disappointment. Not to say she wasn’t at any rate. Certainly the long list of things she wasn’t, ever diligently Pinkie kept, did not include disappointment. To her family, friends, teachers, employers, onlookers. Never been able to keep up with the else, in the areas of significance. Never had the divine spark that spurred their anatomies. Instead what was she left with, the glib and hollow, rambling on ever spouting the same ever. Typical nonsense and noises she could barely contain, it almost induced laughter. Twice as much to say about anything, not a word to be spared, to no sum, no real purpose among it and of no victory, hers worth half of theirs, irritating herself just as often. Some element of laughter, that was the first to go. In these moments of clarity she knows she should have gone with it. She should have done a lot of things. Probably not eaten so much dirt. Not much done there, preferences never her own, and nothing else a life of its own. It’s what a pony has a taste for. Pinkie is veritable desolation. Not a speck of life to be spawned off of her. Odor of her hooves is distasteful, every touch urges decline. So not so different from any other being. But still poor specimen, at least of that much, her contents ephemeral and obscure. No comparisons are suitable. She reminds herself of nothing and has nothing to show herself. So the better may worsen and the reverse, and she may be equal in her zero. Her flaws are not near equal and she is weighed down by her own awfulness. Sinking and lying in her mess unlit by black tones. It isn’t known. In the light, there is none, hide does not look so bright. Difficult to discern the spoils of her effort, total lack of, she closes her eyes and imagines there is nothing, opens her eyes and imagines there is nothing. Put out her eyes and would be yet less difference. Sight never desirable, least of all on her. The point is wasted on her. Notice how her jaw opens then shuts. Just as warned, she has spit up.