The Worst Night Ever

by notawriter

Rating: teen
Tags: Diamond Tiara, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Comedy, Cutie Mark Crusaders
Length: 5576

It's hard to tell where Apple Bloom's night went wrong. Was it accepting Diamond’s invitation? Did she make a mistake cramming her saddle bag with enough chips, cider, and marijuana to kill a manticore? Or was it something else?

"If I had known what I was getting myself into, I never would have gone to Diamond’s party. I would have woken up on Saturday bright and early, eaten a hearty breakfast with my family, and pretended to have fun at the Summer Sun Celebration. I would have saved myself a load of trouble too. Probably would have won a few prizes, and gotten to hang out with my sister and her friends. I could have even spent some quality time with Princess Twilight.
"At the very least, I would have saved myself a few brain cells. My mouth wouldn’t taste like vomit, I wouldn’t see little pink bats plotting to kill me out of the corners of my eyes, and I wouldn’t have 'Pip was here' written on my neck in permanent marker."

(Warning: this story contains foul language, drugs, and "out-of-character" characters.)

I'd like to thank Chocoloco, PegasusKlondike, and chancellorpuddinghead for pre-reading this story. I should also apologize to Chocoloco: yes, I still think the prologue is a tad pessimistic, but I nearly drove myself crazy trying to change it.

Published 2014-01-03 01:40:08 UTC
Last updated 2014-01-03 01:40:08 UTC

Prologue: From the Diary of a Disgruntled Teenager

Dear Diary,

I’ve learned something about myself: I’m never having kids.

Others will have kids – loads of kids! Fat kids, ugly kids, stupid little twerps who spend their free time picking their noses for fresh, salty boogers. “Those kids are special,” parents will say. Never mind their crippling obesity, their nonexistent hygiene, or the unholy tantrums they throw when they don’t get what they want. They’re special!

Parents insist that all kids need is encouragement and love. Yeah, right, those will help them. Just tell kids how special they are and all their problems will be solved. Don’t give up, Junior. You may have 1.5 G.P.A., and all that chocolate you inhaled may have cut fifteen years off your life, but none of that matters because you’re special. Just you wait! When you find your talent and a cutie mark appears on your flank, you’ll know how special you are.

Ridiculous. The truth is, most kids aren’t special; in fact, most of them don’t even matter. Don’t get me wrong, diary. Some ponies are truly special. There are ponies destined to conquer the skies, become captains of industry, or master the arcane arts, but the vast majority of ponies are destined for meaningless, forgettable lives.

Just read a history textbook if you don’t believe me. There aren’t any stories about losers, only the greats. Starswirl the Bearded, the most powerful wizard in history; Private Panzy, co-founder of Equestria; Nightmare Moon, a monster so horrifying, parents turned her into a folk tale to scare kids into behaving. I’m not even going to mention the writers, scientists, politicians, actors, and musicians that have stood the test of time. We’ve remembered these ponies for centuries. Why? Because their unique skills and accomplishments are worth remembering. Janitors, cashiers, telemarketers, and all the other ponies that make a living doing things anypony can do will fade away. Sorry, but it’s true. Those ponies aren’t worth remembering, and when they die, society won’t change whatsoever. He will be missed … hey, who wants this guy’s job?

It’s not just ponies’ jobs that are meaningless: life itself, for most ponies, is meaningless. Think of it this way: a mare can spend her life searching for love, adventure, and power, only to die. After all the hardships and obstacles she’s overcome, her personality, her insecurities, her skills – everything that makes her who she is – will be buried with her six feet under a tombstone, and whatever is on that stone is all future generations will know about her. That’s how it is for most ponies. “Here lies Blossomforth – A loving mother and brilliant gardener.” “Here lies Time Turner – Jazz enthusiast and master clock-fixer.” “Here lies Mayor Mare – A competent mayor.”

That inscription is all a mare will leave behind … at least, until developers dig up her grave to make room for a shopping mall, or a condominium, or some statue dedicated to a futuristic bunny overlord.

What’s so special about her life, then, when her only remnant is a sentence on a crumbling rock? When she and everybody who knew her are dead, what will she become? Future generations will walk by her grave and see “Her star shone brightly,” or some other generic statement. And that’s it! To them, she’s nothing but a sentence. A nopony. An insignificant atom on a pimple on the ever-expanding ass of the universe.

The mare’s life has no meaning. She isn’t special at all. How can she be if nopony knows anything about her? After all, ponies are only special when others acknowledge their accomplishments. Criticism and judgment from others are what give ponies meaning; the opinions of the ponies themselves are irrelevant. Don’t believe me? If you had to choose between feeling insignificant and feeling important, which would you choose? The second option always wins. Nopony wants to think they suck. Chefs convince themselves that their entrees are phenomenal when, in fact, they taste awful; authors spend months typing away at what they consider the greatest works of their generation, when all they’ve actually written is pompous, convoluted tripe; and every day, ponies around the world point to marks on their butts that “prove” how special they are. There's a word for this: narcissism.

And those cutie marks? They prove uniqueness about as effectively as donuts cure heart disease. Just look at that unicorn, Snips. His mark is a pair of scissors, which he got because he’s good at cutting paper. Does that sound special to you? I’m sure that if our copier paper ever rises up against us he’ll be a hero, but until then he’ll be making pony cutouts with safety scissors. Or eating. Or banging his head against a wall, or whatever he does in his spare time. My point is that, by cutie mark standards, a pony as useless and moronic as Snips is still considered special.

Madam Loony had the right idea when she sang, “I live for the applause.” She knows that as long as ponies love her, her life will mean something. Ponies will remember her long after she’s dead. Her fans will show her music to others, who will then show it to others, who’ll show it to others, etcetera, etcetera ... Then, the moment she’s forgotten: poof! Gone. Nothing special.

Don’t let Cat Nip tell you different, diary! That filly’s always arguing with me about these kinds of things; hell, just the other day she ran up to me and said, “You’re forgetting about friendship and family. Those make life special."

Well, first of all, Cat Nip, your friends and family are going to die. Unless you do something memorable (which you probably won’t), you’ll be forgotten, and nopony will be able to say your life had meaning. Be sure to thank your parents for that. It’s because of parents that kids grow up thinking they’re special when they’re not. If everypony knew how insignificant they actually were, they’d hone noteworthy skills, make every second precious, and work hard to be remembered.

And friends? Sure, they’ll make you happy, until they abandon you. Just wait, Cat Nip. You and your friends will promise to be together forever, but sooner or later they’ll leave. They’ll find new interests, make new friends, fall in love, or just try to get away from you. Then, in sixty years, when your parents and siblings are rotting in the dirt and you’re on your deathbed, you’ll look around your room with the thirty cats you bought to fill the gaping void of loneliness inside you. You’ll remember the promise your friends made, and you’ll weep. You’ll pray to Celestia for more time, only to hear your cats mewing; and then, with the stench of feces and urine lodged in your nostrils, your heart will swell with blood, explode, and you’ll die.

“Here lies Cat Nip,” your tombstone will read. “She loved her cats to the very end.”

Have fun slipping into the void, Cat Nip!

I’m not letting that shit happen to me, though.

Take a long look at me, diary. What do you see? Sunken red eyes? Scarred forelegs? A long, red mane and a yellow coat? Of course not! You see the blank flank; but don’t worry, I don’t blame you. It’s all anypony sees. For fifteen years I’ve toiled in the fields on my family’s farm, roasted under the blazing sun while I bucked apples from trees, dug moats in freezing storms, and sculpted my body into a machine. When I run laps at school, I leave everypony choking on dust. I’ve broken school records without breaking a sweat, but does anypony call me the Athlete? Nope. I’m the World’s Oldest Blank Flank.

And yet, I, Apple Bloom, will go down in history. It’s only a matter of time. While other ponies waste their lives raising kids that’ll never amount to anything, or congratulating themselves on how “amazing” their cutie marks are, I’ll be learning, training, and planning. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I’m going to be a legend, diary.

And you can go to hell for doubting me.

Hindsight

If I had known what I was getting myself into, I never would have gone to Diamond’s party. I would have woken up on Saturday bright and early, eaten a hearty breakfast with my family, and pretended to have fun at the Summer Sun Celebration. I would have saved myself a load of trouble too. Probably would have won a few prizes, and gotten to hang out with my sister and her friends. I could have even spent some quality time with Princess Twilight.

At the very least, I would have saved myself a few brain cells. My mouth wouldn’t taste like vomit, I wouldn’t see little pink bats plotting to kill me out of the corners of my eyes, and I wouldn’t have “Pip was here” written on my neck in permanent marker.

But that’s all hypothetical. If I had said this, not that. If I had done this, not that. If I had smiled politely instead of spitting on Twilight, or getting into a fight, or head butting the Mayor. It’s all in the past. No matter how much I wish I could change it, there’s nothing I can do … Weird, huh? We always know what to do in hindsight.

In my case, though, it’s hard to tell where it all went wrong. Was it accepting Diamond’s invitation? Did I make a mistake cramming my saddle bag with enough chips, cider, and marijuana to kill a manticore, or challenging Scootaloo to a drinking contest after gagging on cheap beer? Or was it something else? So many factors, so many fuckups, so many chances to avoid a hangover more painful than a baseball bat to the face.

Now, if you know anything about me, you know Diamond Tiara and I have a history. Ever since elementary school, I’d been peering over my shoulder, making sure she wasn’t hatching some diabolical scheme. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. Mean nicknames, spitballs, rumors, it didn’t matter to Diamond; if it made me unhappy, she loved it.

Why, then, did I go to her party? Surely I knew that I’d black out and wake up in a dumpster with a penis scribbled on my flank.

Well, the answer’s simple.

I was at school, doing what I always did during lunch: sitting alone under a tree on the edge of campus. Well, actually, that’s a lie. Look at me! Here I am expecting you to believe everything I say, and I don’t even have the decency to tell you the whole truth. I wasn’t alone. I was never alone under that tree. There was always a territorial squirrel waiting for me, ready to pelt me with acorns. He was quite an odd little guy. I’d been sitting by myself under that tree since I was a sophomore, and he never gave up trying to make me leave. I was a senior, two weeks from graduation, and he was still going at it.

But I didn’t mind him. Kind of nice having him around, actually. I’d gotten so used to getting hit with acorns and hearing his incessant chatter that I’d get uncomfortable when he stopped. We were enemies, I guess. He hated me, but it’s still nice to think that I left some imprint on him, however small and inconvenient it was.

But you aren’t here to hear about the squirrel.

I had scribbled down my latest “Get Famous Quick” scheme: “Changeling Hunter.” Call me crazy, but it sounded genius. Plausible too. One of the most notable things about Ponyville is its penchant for being attacked. Not a season goes by without something trying to destroy the town: ursa minors, chaos gods, parasprites, angry magicians, clone armies, dragons! A changeling invasion? Why the fuck not?

I was putting the finishing touches on my “brilliant” plan when Diamond came strutting up to me. Yes, strutting. Head up, muzzle aimed slightly to the sky, like she was too high and mighty to look at me directly. Each step, light and slow. And her flanks didn’t sway from side to side like flanks normally do when ponies walk. All-in-all, her movements were very stiff. It was the walk of somepony who was incredibly cool, or thought they were incredibly cool, or was fighting off shotgun diarrhea. Maybe all three, I couldn’t tell.

She greeted me as she always did: “Hello, Blank Flank.”

I stopped myself before I could ask, “How’s it going, Skank?” and went back to my paper.

“I’m sorry,” she added. “It’s a force of habit.”

I grunted, but I wasn’t listening. Too focused on my changeling plan, you know? They’re sneaky, I told myself. If you aren’t careful, a changeling could easily disguise itself as somepony you know. It’d be right under your nose and you wouldn’t even know it. You need some way to break its disguise.

“Excuse me,” Diamond said. “Are you listening?”

“No.” Maybe there’s something changelings hate: garlic, or something.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Of course not,” I said with a smile. “I always have time for my besty.”

You know, at the time, I thought my sarcasm was absolutely hilarious; looking back on it now, it’s just really stupid. (Again, hindsight.)

Diamond sighed and looked behind her. I couldn’t see what she was looking at, but she looked uncomfortable. Maybe she does have to use the bathroom.

“Alright,” I said. “What is it you want to talk to me about?” I drew the sentence out as long as possible.

“There’s a party at my house this Saturday. Your family brews some of the best hard cider in Equestria, right?”

I nodded, making sure to look bored.

“If you bring some of that cider to the party,” she said, “I’ll let you attend.”

“Steal from my family to spend a night with you?”

“When you put it like that it sounds-”

“The drinking age is twenty-one. You know that, right?”

Diamond scoffed. “Apple Bloom, we’re eighteen. If we’re old enough to live on our own and go to war, we should be able to drink responsibly.”

I grunted and turned back to my paper.

“Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo’ll be there too,” she added, as if it mattered to me. I hadn’t spoken to those two since we were freshman. They’d gotten sick of me long ago and had gone off to find newer, better friends; believe it or not, they started hanging out with Diamond Tiara.

Not that I cared. I had my squirrel.

“Well,” I said, “then I’m definitely not going.”

Diamond kept sweetening the offer (“I’ll pay you … I’ll introduce you to Stripes. I know you like him …”). I kept turning her down (“Not worth it, Skank … I don’t want to talk to him, Skank …”). In the end, Diamond gave up. “Alright,” she snapped. “If you’re too scared to come, fine.”

Now there was no way I’d let somepony – especially Diamond Tiara – think I was a coward. “Scared?” I laughed. “I’m not scared. I just don’t feel like wasting a night with the meanest shrew in Ponyville.”

“Sure.” She walked away.

I jumped to my feet and stood in her way. “You don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you believe you,” she said and stepped around me.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

She didn’t look back. “Have fun with your tree, Apple Bloom. I didn’t want you there anyway. A blank flank would suck the life out of my party.”

“Oh really?”

And then I said it: “Fine! How many bottles do you need?”

And thus, I found myself going to a party I’d hate, to meet ponies I didn’t care about; carrying six bottles of Apple Family Hard Cider, three bags of Doritos, a half-empty box of Oreos, a bag of marijuana, and four red apples, just to spite a mare I didn’t like.

I said the answer was simple. I didn’t say it was good.

Diamond hadn’t said anything about the marijuana, just the cider. But hey, I thought, if we’re going to break the law we might as well go all in, right? As the saying goes, “If the train’s moving, you might as well blow the whistle.”

Getting everything was a breeze. Applejack, my sister, put the key to the cider vault in the same place every night, and we had so much cider nopony would ever notice six bottles missing. Same with the marijuana – “glaucoma medicine,” as Granny Smith calls it. I had no idea what any of the names meant, but she had things like “Canterlot Red,” “Manehatten Kush,” “Pineapple Express,” and “Blue Grass,” all neatly packed into a suitcase under her bed. You know, for glaucoma.

I picked some sparkling blue stuff called “Sassafras” and put some in my saddle bag. I then repacked the suitcase, put it back where I’d found it, and was out the door and in my room before Granny had made it up the stairs.

Like I said, a breeze. The only problem was the condom. I don’t care if ponies say you shouldn’t be embarrassed buying them; handing a pack of condoms to a cashier is one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life! It didn’t help that my cashier was a pizza-faced, twenty-something grease ball. He took one look at what I wanted to buy and asked, with what he thought was a playful smirk, “Big plans tonight?”

“Like I’d tell you.” I threw a pack of condoms at him and stormed out.

I’d already sworn to myself never to have kids, and I wasn’t going to risk Diamond’s party changing that (yeah, shut up, I know it sounds paranoid). That grease ball never left the store, though. The party was a day away and I still needed one of those things, so I did something I thought I’d never do: I stole from my brother. A part of me died afterwards.

No girl should ever have to learn why the mares in town insist on calling her brother “Big Mac.”

I was somewhere outside downtown Ponyville, heading up a dirt road leading to the rich section of town, when the visions started. Sweet Celestia, I have never imagined anything so vividly in my life! I could see Big Mac, clear as day, sprawled out on a bed with a mare bouncing on top of him.

I shook my head. Yes, I told myself. It’s traumatizing, but you can’t think about that stuff, especially not tonight. I forced myself to stare at the trees lining my path, and I struggled to think of something other than my brother.

Trees, leaves, leaf veins. Veins on a throbbing –

Stars. Lots of stars, shimmering like flawless gemstones. They sort of look like freckles … freckles on a young mare wrapping her legs around my brother –

Dirt! Oh sweet, wonderful, boring dirt! Giver of life, perfect for a quick, sweaty romp –

“Fuck!” I must have screeched it just a little too loudly, because nearby houselights flickered on. See a shrink later, I told myself. Just find a distraction. Something. Anything!

And lo and behold …

“Apple Bloom!”

A chill ran down my spine. That voice, that goofy, high-pitched, near yodel of a voice. I couldn’t help but shudder as I looked behind me; sure enough, it was him. Snails. His morbidly obese sidekick, Snips, waddled at his side.

I like to think that, to some extent, every kid I knew from elementary school went through some sort of change. These two, though. I’m still amazed they’re graduating.

Snails, well, you can probably guess what he’s like just by his name. He’s tall, taller than most ponies, and you’d never guess it, what with the gray trench coats he and Snips were wearing, but he’s basically a skeleton wrapped in skin. He’s so scrawny a good gust of wind can blow him right off his feet (I’ve seen it happen!). His mane’s long and greasy, which probably explains the pimples scattered across his neck and face. And his cutie mark? A snail. Don’t ask what it represents, because I can’t tell you. I don’t think anypony can. The guy never does anything, he should have failed all his classes, and when it comes to magic, he’s barely able to make his horn glow. A loser, really. And yet ponies still pity him less than a blank flank.

Oh, and Snips? … The less I think about him, the better.

I managed a half-smile and waved, limply.

“Hey, Apple Bloom,” Snails repeated. “What’re you doing here?”

They smelled like rotting meat. “Going to Diamond’s,” I said, trying not to inhale.

They burst into what I think was laughter. Snails’ head bobbed up and down as he let out a “Gnyuh, gnyuh, gnyuh,” ending each “gnyuh” with a gasp for air. Snips’ whole body vibrated. Mouth agape, he let out a weird machine gun fire-like sound: “Eheheheheheheheheh.”

I asked what was so funny, and the two went quiet. Snails then turned to me with blood shot eyes and gasped. “Hey, Apple Bloom! What’re you doing here?”

Before I could answer, Snails stuck his mouth into Snips’ pocket and pulled out a pink sugar cookie, gulped it down (I swear to Celestia, he didn’t even chew), pulled out another, and offered it to me. “Want one?” he mumbled through the cookie.

Slobber coated the cookie, and Snails’ putrid breath wasn’t helping my appetite. “No thanks,” I said. I gagged a little.

“Go ahead,” said Snips. “We got plenty of ‘em from Sugarcube Corner.” He pulled a cookie out of Snails’ pocket and chewed, making an “omn” sound with each bite. “These are really good. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

“I said I don’t want one and I meant it!” Snails’ odor was starting to get to me.

I was more than a little on edge. This whole scenario reeked of suspicious behavior. It was weird enough that Diamond had invited me to her party, but these two? There was something I didn’t know. Some piece of the puzzle that I’d overlooked – this had to be part of some larger scheme. I was sure of it.

Snails turned to me and gasped. “Hey, Apple Bloom-”

You know the rest.

Now, I’d love to say our walk to Diamond’s was more interesting. I wish it was more interesting. I wish I didn’t have to endure ten minutes of dick and fart jokes and Snails’ smell. Was it an outhouse? Bile? Whatever it was, Snails needed to see a doctor. You’re almost there, I told myself. Try to think of something else.

I remember when Ponyville was green. There used to be trees and grass and flowers all around this town. Houses were made of straw and wood instead of concrete and metal. Ponyvile was just a quaint little place on the way to Canterlot with no more than 700 ponies. Now the population’s approaching 20,000. The lush pastures and vibrant forests were stripped bare long ago to make room for new houses, and there’s always a demand for new houses. Ever since Twilight Sparkle took the throne and Mayor Scotch replaced Mayor Mare, there’s been no shortage of ponies eager to move to Ponyville. Everypony wants to live where the Princess lived.

Scootaloo, Sweetie Belle, and I must have been eleven-or-so when ponies started moving in. “For Sale” signs went up all around my family’s farm, and practically overnight the fields the three of us spent our afternoons in disappeared. It was just an annoyance, at first. We weren’t allowed here, so we’d go there. No big deal. As Sweetie Belle put it, “We’re exploring. We’ll find new places to have adventures.”

As the years went by, though, things got harder and harder to explore. And adventures? Pretty hard to have them when everywhere you look, there’s a “Restricted Area” sign. “Private Residence.” “Authorized Personnel Only.” “Trespassers Will be Shot. Survivors Will be Shot Again.” The three of us hit high school and, other my family’s farm, the only fields left in Ponyville were the fields of dead weeds on unsold lots.

Now there’s nothing left to do to in Ponyville but eat and shop. But boy can you shop! You want to save your money and spend time with your family on a warm, sunny afternoon? Fuck that! Come on down to the Ponyville Galleria, Equestria’s third largest shopping mall, and spend your weekend wandering four stories of air-conditioned paradise! And be sure to stuff your face with greasy, buttery goodness in the food court. You’ll need the calories if you’re going to visit all the stores, nearly all of which sell perfume and clothes.

Oh, yeah, forgot to mention that. Clothes are all the rage nowadays. I don’t know why, but these days, if at least five percent of your body isn’t covered in something stitched by a starving kid in a sweatshop, you’re not “with it,” whatever the fuck “it” is.

Don’t go thinking that I’m too good for the clothing fad. I have clothes - well, before Diamond's party, I had clothes. Nowhere near as many as Sweetie Belle, who seemed to a fancy new outfit every week, but I had a full wardrobe; and, ironically, only one piece of clothing I actually liked. It wasn’t much. Just a pair of blue silk stockings linked together by a band of cloth that hung over my neck. They were a gift from Sweetie Belle’s sister, Rarity – and she makes designer dresses for a living, so you know they were well made. There’s actually even a bit of a story behind that gift.

See, the blue stockings weren’t the first things Rarity made me. It must have been my freshman year when she took me to her shop, Carousel Boutique, and made me a green pair. “You’ll be the bell of the ball,” she said when I put them on. And I have to admit, they didn’t look half bad. Not to brag, but I probably could have broken a few hearts, if I put my mind to it.

I thanked her and headed for the door.

“Darling,” she said, “come back next week. I’ll have something else ready for you.”

I smiled and nodded, but I couldn’t help but ask what she had in mind.

“Oh, nothing too fancy. I know you and your sister like things simple.” She circled me, eyeing me up and down. “How would you like a skirt?” she asked. I’d never worn a skirt, but I was willing to try one.

Everything was going fine, but when she said, “Something to … accentuate your flanks,” my heart sank. Of course, I told myself. She wasn’t making me clothes to be nice, or because I was friends with Sweetie Belle. It was because of pity. Oh, you poor girl. You must feel so embarrassed about your bare flanks. But don’t worry, darling! I can help you. I can make you look normal.

It was such a long time ago, but I remember stomping out the door into a rainstorm.

Rarity asked me what was wrong.

I said I didn’t want anything done with my flanks.

She assured me I’d look good in a skirt, and that I should be proud of my physique.

I said I didn’t want other ponies saying what was good for me.

She asked if this had something to do with my blank flank.

I said yes, and that I didn’t want to be pitied.

She said she was just trying to boost my confidence.

I said I didn’t need her help.

She said that if I didn’t want a skirt, she could make me something else.

I said I wanted to go home.

She asked if I thought I was overreacting, just a little.

I told her to fuck off.

Before she could answer, I ran home and locked myself in my room. I hurled Rarity’s gift into the corner and spent the rest of the night in bed hugging a pillow and trying not to cry. The next day, Rarity apologized. She didn’t need to; I knew that I was in the wrong, but I couldn’t admit it, so I stayed mad. She’s not really sorry, I assured myself. She’s just saying that to make you feel better.

A few days later, Sweetie Belle and I stopped talking.

Rarity’s outfit spent a year in my closet before I put it on again. It didn’t feel right wearing something so nice, considering how awful I’d been to Rarity, but I didn’t have anything else clean to wear; plus, it suited my needs. It was comfortable, durable, and, most importantly, it completely covered the scars on my forelegs.

Call it luck, fate, or random chance, but that night I came home and found Applejack in the living room, talking to Rarity. I didn’t say anything, just nodded to Rarity and hurried upstairs. A few days later, I got a package from Carousel Boutique. No apology, nothing about how good I’d look in blue, just a small card under the new stockings. “If you hate these,” it read, “throw them away.”

That night, I laughed so hard I cried.

I never wore the blue stockings. You ever like something so much that you can’t use it because you’re afraid you’ll ruin it? My sweaters? Didn’t care about them. The green stockings? I couldn’t wait for them to fall apart. But those blue ones? I would die before I ruined them.

Rarity’s gift was only for the most special occasions, of which I had none, so I never wore them. Not until I went to Diamond’s party.

Big mistake.

I’ve never been big on architecture. All the modern-day buildings look the same to me: like big, bulky eyesores that block out the horizon. I think Diamond’s mansion is the only exception. It’s massive. Three stories of glass, beige, and marble that face the sun as it rises over the mountains of Canterlot; cobblestone pathways that lead you through a lush garden of every color; and, to top it off, a ten-foot marble mermaid in the center of a fountain, just outside the front door. It was all Diamond’s.

Celestia I hated Diamond!

Snips rang the doorbell and looked at Snails. “Are you ready?” he asked. The guy was shaking, he was so excited.

Snails nodded with a yellow grin.

Glad somepony was in a good mood. Me? I was having a panic attack.

Oh, I knew something was off. Horribly off. Was it the blue stockings? No, no, no, it couldn’t be those; if Rarity thought they looked good, they looked good. Was it my mane? I’d tied it into a ponytail, like my sister’s. Was that it? Ah! Shit! Stop sweating! I couldn’t stop. The silk darkened with sweat. I started to stink too.

Well, perfect, I told myself. You finally go to a party and you smell like B.O. and Snails. Good fucking going!

I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was in a furnace, and the stockings were so damn tight! My legs were going numb. I wanted to throw the stockings off, but I knew I couldn’t show my forelegs. Not in public. Never in public.

My saddle bag – oh Celestia, my saddle bag! It had gained 200 pounds in an instant. I could almost hear my spine groaning as it tried not to snap.

Any second now, my saddle bag would squish me to a pulp, or my legs would buckle and I’d crumple to the floor, or a tsunami of odor would crash down on the poor bastard polite enough to open the door. I was trapped! If I ran, I was a coward; if I stayed, I’d look like an idiot. Globules of sweat dripped off my muzzle.

My stockings had turned a deep blue.

I was glistening!

Ugh, I look like I just climbed out of a pool …

And then it hit me: The fountain!

Cold water. That always works to calm the nerves, right? While Snips and Snails beat against the door, I hobbled to the fountain as fast as my saddle bag allowed. I took a deep breath, and I plunged my head underwater.

Fun fact: cold water is great for clearing your head. Fountain water, not so much. Unless you like the burn of chlorine, don’t stick your head in a fountain. The panic attack was over, but now I was wet, cold, sticky, and smelly, my eyes were on fire, my favorite outfit was ruined, and I was still seeing my brother. I didn’t want anypony to see me like this.

But lo and behold …

“Apple Bloom?”

I froze. That voice; that high, squeaky voice. I turned, and sure enough, it was her. Sweetie Belle.

Before I could say a thing, she bolted out of the house and wrapped herself around my neck. Now I really couldn’t breathe. “You made it!” she squeaked. “This is going to be the best night ever!”

And then, before I could reply, it happened. Snips and Snails, with all the grace and synchronism of a pair of professional dancers, threw off their coats, revealing two matching, skin-tight Equestrian flag Speedos.