Bad days come in many shapes and sizes.
Bad days come in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes it is a single piece of crushing news or a disheartening event, which ruins your perspective for as long as it is fresh in your memory. Other times it is a confrontation with someone you know or a mistake you make, which leaves a bad taste in your mouth as you mull over how you might have handled things more elegantly. Then there are the times where it is nothing in particular, a cascade of little problems or tiny irritations that are greater than the sum of their parts.
The last variation is sometimes mocked—many ponies dismiss the idea that little problems can compare to big ones, that a missing pen or burnt piece of food could deserve as much attention as an earthquake or disease. This is a fallacious idea; stress is stress, no matter what form it takes. A series of tiny issues can be just as draining as a single large one. A seemingly insignificant problem can build on a previous one. The damage piles on itself, and the healing process is unable to complete. Like a scab that has been picked at, each miniscule attack wears it down, until finally the wound reopens.
Rarity was having one such day. It was written in every one of her motions: the way she fumbled with her keys, the way she stabbed them into the lock, the way she pushed the door open causing it to clatter loudly against the doorstop.
It had started small, naturally—a few missing bits of fabric, a bent needle, a jam in her sewing machine—nothing that couldn’t be fixed or ignored. Then it moved to deceptively small things, those that appeared unimportant but were laying the groundwork for more; the grocer being out of stock, a dropped receipt falling in the mud, a stray gust tossing her mane askew. Finally it graduated to bigger things; her bag getting caught on a fence and spilling across the street, the waiter dropping her lunch, bonking her horn on a door. Any one of the occurrences would have been a trivial annoyance on its own. As the list grew longer, however, a dozen small contrivances assembled themselves into a single large problem, enough to dampen any mood.
Rarity flung her purse on the floor. The duct tape holding the tear together crinkled loudly as it landed. She marched into her kitchen, and as she dropped her groceries on the counter the dull thunk echoed slightly. She turned to a particular cabinet, next to the fridge and well above the counter. That was where she kept her wine. A little early, certainly, but she barely drank at all. The last time she had anything that would qualify as alcoholic was…
Her hoof paused a few inches from the handle. She had taken her last bottle to an engagement party a few weeks ago; a pair of old friends had finally bothered to announce the obvious. She had brought a bottle of unopened ’89 Marelot to help express her congratulations. Rarity was certainly not the type to regret an act of generosity; the party had been nice, and the wine had obviously made it better, if only slightly. She drank so rarely, however, that replacing it had not been a high priority.
Her hoof fell back to her side. Drinking to relieve stress was definitely not a healthy decision to begin with, but in the context of a bad day every little thing became that much worse.
Rarity sighed, and it was both long and loud. “Well, now what,” she muttered to herself. Her usual stress relief techniques were tailored to winding down after a big job, not to malicious coincidence. Reading a book or taking a bath didn’t seem like it would help.
Rarity’s ear flicked. The memory had come and gone without prompting, but its meaning was hard to interpret in more than one way. “No, that’s preposterous.”
She had been having lunch with Twilight a few months ago, just a friendly outing. Twilight had mentioned a new study that had come out of Manechester or somesuch, and she was reviewing it for errors for a paper. The hypothesis had been that swearing relieved stress. Twilight mentioned that she wasn’t the only one looking it over—the scientists had made some questionable decisions, and the validity of the results was being discussed by lots of scientists.
Rarity frowned. Even without Twilight’s healthy skepticism, the idea was absurd. She didn’t need a scientific method to figure that out. Besides, even if it did work, a lady did not swear. It was completely unnecessary in any sort of company, and she had never felt like her vocabulary was inadequate.
She knew plenty of colorful words, of course. In fact, given her parents, she was surprised she didn’t know more. She had once walked in on her father talking with a friend about some hoofball score or other, and the terminology had gotten quite emphatic. She had once overheard her mother gossiping with a neighbor, and their language was as scandalous as the rumors.
Rarity shook her head. “Even considering the idea is beneath me. It’s just one bad day, I can weather it without resorting to such petty, uncouth tactics.”
She nodded her head and turned to the groceries. Putting them away would be a good start towards normalcy. Her horn ignited, and the paper bag began to slowly float upward. She didn’t make a habit of talking to herself, but the pep talk was already working. After her shopping was properly stored, she could get to mending her purse, and things could only go uphill from there.
The bag split open. A few apples spilt out, rolling across the counter. Her magic dimmed and the bag fell back onto the marble, a few pears leaking out of it as it sagged sideways.
Rarity opened her mouth. Just as quickly, she snapped it shut. Her eyes flicked to the doorway. Her bottom lip curled into her mouth, her teeth clamping onto it, like they were trying to handcuff an unruly prisoner.
She turned back to the groceries. “It’s absurd!” she said, a little louder than she had intended. “Isn’t it?”
The groceries did not answer.
Rarity turned back to the door. Her horn lit up, and the click of the lock echoed through the entire house. She turned to her kitchen door, and the sound of its lock seemed to reverberate even louder than the first one.
Rarity rushed to the stairs. She practically sprinted to her bedroom. A quick scan ensured the windows were closed, but she gave them a telekinetic poke just to be sure. She prodded her door shut, and despite the gentleness of it, the slowness of it, the door sounded thunderous as it clacked closed.
Rarity glanced over her shoulder. Yes, the door was shut. The windows were shut.
She took a deep breath. The sound of her inhalation seemed to go on for eternity, to empty the room of every single ounce of oxygen. Her head leaned back, her legs stiffened, her eyes closed.
It is often said that words carry weight and power that is unmatched by any other thing. From the old cliché about the pen and the sword, to a well-timed joke or kind platitude, to the meticulously planned speeches of politicians, a poignant sentence or eloquent assessment can make a world of difference.
Rarity had never really understood the sentiment. Obviously she enjoyed books, and she had a marketing agent, but when it came right down to it she was a seamstress, not a journalist or orator.
The poets and scholars and speech writers had no doubt been aiming at a completely different idea. Rarity was reasonably sure of that. Yet, as the word left her mouth, as her lungs strained with the sheer volume of it, as her mane flipped out of place from the force of her shouting, she finally understood what they were getting at.
“Fuck!”
The word felt wonderful.
Author's Note
Trivia; originally, this story starred Twilight, and it was rated Mature because any story with swear words in the title requires a Mature tag.
