A Boring Life For A Now-Boring Pony

by j3r034rja34jty

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, Comedy
Length: 1050

The story of a a now-boring pony, somehow narrated by a more-than-omnipresent narrator. Don't ask rhetorical question.

The story of a a now-boring pony, somehow narrated by a more-than-omnipresent narrator. Somehow, dull isn't a category, but this definitely falls under it.

Dont ask rhetorical questions, with one being:

"Can my job be any more boring?”

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-11-19 09:10:01 UTC

Prologue (0)

A Boring Life For A Boring Pony

A little fun fact about our main character: She hates you.

Yes, a little abrupt, but as the narrator I feel it appropriate to discuss her subconscious knowledge of you, the reader, and her relation towards you (the reader, which is you, incase you haven’t quite figured it out yet).

What does this have to do with the story? Nothing. In fact, its insignificance is so miniscule that I even wonder why I said it in the first place. Maybe it’s just because I hate all of you. Does that make me the main character? No, of course, but I just thought that you should know that as well.

We start with our character sleeping, on her bed (what else would she be sleeping on?). She didn’t sleep very well.

Flop.

The pillow soared across the room, before hitting the wall and sliding to the floor, as if someone took a pillow and threw it across the room. Maybe it’s like that because they’re the same thing. I truly hope that all of you have a dull sense of humor like me, because if not, the reader (you), would not enjoy this story as much as I did.

Her gray (or is it grey? I feel like you might use either. Not sure) coat didn’t really shimmer in the sunlight pouring in through the windows, probably because it was unkempt and rather bed-head-esque, however, one might say bed-body for these equines that inhabited whatever the hell their universe or galaxy might be (potentially only a couple light years away from us!).

The fact that the story has only moved on about an inch (quite literally. Perhaps they use the metric system. Maybe their own? The equestrian-system? Maybe just ‘The System’, with them knowing (or thinking) that they are alone in this, or perhaps another universe. I also wonder if they have an appropriate given length for parentheses, or if they have them at all (for I am too lazy to check (and I truly hope that you do not find the constant use annoying))) makes me wonder how long this story will take to tell. I’ll speed it up now.

She (the main character, of course) wheezed up off the bed and moved forward.

Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.

She continued this process until she found herself in a room covered in white. It also had a tub, a sink, a toilet, a mirror, and several other amenities that she found herself (not you: the reader) wanting. Some of those are (but not limited to) a rack to hang her eggshell (not asylum) white towels, mini soap holder, and heated floors.

She turns on the shower, making sure to twist the red ‘H’ all the way, and the fitting blue ‘C’ only a smidge. It was an unfortunate flaw in her shower for hot water to be only half as strong as the cold.

Maybe that’s why she hates you? Probably not. That wouldn’t make any sense.

Grunting, she undresses nothing (assuming that they don’t wear any clothes, at least I do, because I’m not that honest), and steps over the death trap of a ledge and into her tub.

The hot water rolls off her now-soaked coat, falls into the drain, and goes off to somewhere only a select few of ponies actually care about.

Anyways, after somehow managing to get the shampoo out of the bottle and lathered thoroughly throughout her coat and rinse it off (which still amazes me to this day- you just had to be there), she just, and I mean just manages to climb back over the ledge, grab a towel, and dry herself off (mostly). Did you know that ponies can’t dry their tails? Or at least, that’s what I think.

I guess I should speed it up a bit more.

Today was the day. A day. Day. Morning.

Work. Work. Work. Work.

However, she played the cello, so could you really call that work? To her, yes, but only because she had self-esteem issues that only bragging could fix.

Lunge.

The comical-sized, cello-filled bag fell over her shoulder, and she left her apartment.

“It’s a bit chilly today” She said to herself.

To me, it really felt around 37. I guess that could be 2.77, or 9910357203. I don’t really know ‘The System’, and I’m not sure why.

Of course, she, in all her wondrous glory, was far above public transit (which seems a tad morbid to me. Other ponies pulling around other horses? It just doesn’t quite sit right with me), and decided to take her pony-pulling-pony contraption, which really is just an exact copy of public transport, but in this scenario she owns it, so it’s quite obviously special.

Let skip forward a couple of hours. This story hasn’t really even began to start yet- as this is only the prologue.

She sits at her chair, among other many musicians. However, her chair was marked the insignificant ‘first’, so without a doubt she was above the others. You could say the others were quite behind on the music.

I stood there, watching. However, she (or anyone(pony, in this case), for the matter) noticed me, for I truly don’t actually exist. I’m just kind of there.

The others’ bows moved back and forth, in tangent, and still made the sloppy noises (which really were quite beautiful, it really all depends on what they were expecting to hear- for one could say they were only hearing a sliver of Z, with Z being the music). She, sitting there with quite a bored expression, sat there with nothing to do. For she was too good, and was told to sit out a playing so the others could fix their own mistakes, and not copy after her, leaving them milliseconds (or bananas- however they (the ponies) do it). Annoyed is a good adjective to use.

Before long, empty time got the best of her.

“Can my job be any more boring?”

That’s where I come in. For yes, rhetorical questions like that, can in fact be answered.

The answer? Yes.

After enough babbling, and honestly unimportant gibberish, the story may truly start here, with less of my incoherent commentary. Not gone, but less.

Poof.

Her rhetorical question was starting to be answered- and she would soon find out herself.