Pinkie Pie's Nightmare Log

I don't think often. In fact, I don't like to think. That's one of the reasons I hate to sleep. When you lay down to sleep, you have nothing to do but to let every single thought you've ever held bubble up to the surface. You have no way to prevent that, except stare at a blank wall until sleep overtakes you. And if you're lucky, then that's all.

I didn't sleep often. I "lived" in a room I rented from Mister Carrot Cake and Missus Cup Cake. The room was a small, ordinary room with a bed, a nightstand, and a closet. The closet held a couple dresses, and a few of my more special items. The nightstand was usually clean. The floor was usually dirty—scraps of balloons that I'm piecing back together were endemic to my most recent hobby. I usually stayed up doing that, instead of sleeping. I really don't like sleep, and I never really have.

Every time I had to sleep was the same. Someone I knew—usually somepony, but there were a few exceptions—asked how long I had been without sleep. I, of course, was completely honest. They told me that I needed to sleep. I of course, would agree. If they had noticed, then it had been too long. I'd go through the rest of the day as usual. I'd stay up until midnight, usually. Then, I'd wrap myself in blankets, gaze at the blank wall, and go to sleep. I did have a wall covered with pictures, covered in memories, for when I was awake. The blank wall had less to think about, though.

I'd usually wake up some time around two in the morning, write down what happened in my dream diary, and then get back to work on my project. Sometimes I'd be lucky, and wake around six, or sometimes even eight, but usually it was around two. And usually, I had to write in my diary.

Although, diaries contain some internal monologue. So I guess it was more of a journal, or a log.

And dream diaries were about dreams. So I guess mine was a Nightmare Log.