(Un)Healthy Obsession

I always hated mirrors.  All through my early years, and especially high school, they had only served as cruel reminders of my problem.

Yet there I stood in my bathroom, gawking at the lean, muscular man shining with shower water and wrapped in a fluffy striped bath towel.  Who knew this hunk was hiding under all that fat?  Experimentally, I angled my body this way and that, flexing different muscles and noting the new shadows beneath my chest and crisscrossing over my abdomen.

The changes seemed so sudden.  I could hardly believe that only three months had gone by since I started to cut back on food and exercise four times a week.  Was that really all it took?  Three measly months?  That’s what had been standing between me and self-confidence for twenty-eight years?

“Lookin’ good, Tom,” I said to my reflection, lifting my arms and admiring the bulge of bicep.  “Lookin’ real good.”

“You almost done in there, Spike?” my wife asked croakily from outside the door.

“Honey!”  My voice cracked as I scrambled to open the bathroom door.  “You’re awake!”

She was laughing as I pulled it open.  “I guess I can’t blame you,” she admitted, running her eyes over my bare upper half.  “You look so good.”

“Who knew?” I asked, kissing her on the forehead as she squeezed past me.

“I did,” she said with a wink, leaving the door open as she got ready to shower.  I sighed happily; Crystal was truly incredible in every way.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” she suddenly asked as the water turned on.

I focused for a moment.  “Not really… why?”

“You were mumbling something at five in the morning,” she answered over the stream, “loud enough to wake me up.  Sounded like you were talking to someone.”

An embarrassed grin tugged at my mouth as one dream reentered my memory.

“Well, I don’t know if this was the same dream,” I loudly replied, swapping my towel for a pair of red checkered boxers, “but I remember something about Discord.”

My wife cackled for a full ten seconds.  “Oh, gosh, Tom.  You seriously need to stop thinking about that show all the time.”

“I can’t help it!” I confessed.  “It’s so good!”

“I know it is,” she agreed, “and I know it’s been very helpful for both of us, but you have to remember that too much of anything is bad.  Moderation in all things, yeah?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I muttered, guiltily remembering my Equestria Daily hit the night before.

“What was the dream about?” Crystal asked.  Rhythmic splashes told me she was rinsing out her hair.

I fingered through the new t-shirts hanging in my closet, picking out a grey-ish green one with a target on the chest that I had never worn before.  Crystal must have bought it for me.

I pulled the shirt over my head as I began to recall the dream.  “Uh… I can only see bits and pieces.  Something about Discord escaping again.  I actually think it was in the real world though.”

“Oh?  Like, on Earth, you mean?”

“Yeah.  I’m pretty sure.  Anyway, I remember something about a museum… he got really angry at some point and started breaking stuff.  I was trying to clean it up, even while he was still rampaging.”  I chuckled at the stupidity that must have made sense in the dream.  “Anyway, I don’t really remember how, but the clearest part of the dream was at the end when he turned good.”

“Turned good?  What do you mean?”

“I think he was helping out some… police regiment.  NYPD.  I don’t know.  Can’t really remember.”

“Hm.  Sounds like a weird dream.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me.  My new Hudsons were lying in a heap at my feet and I was trying to decide whether or not to wear them again that day.  Eventually I went for it, thinking of my dad as I pulled on one pant leg at a time.  He had been the only one to bluntly criticize my weight, really.  To see those size 30s rest so comfortably around my waist would have made him very proud.  His only two addictions in life were style and exercise, both of which I was starting to adopt.  And I said a quiet prayer of thanks to Celestia for that.

Rarity vanished when he almost got hit by a taxi.  Nothing a flip of the bird couldn’t rectify, but startling enough to expel his companion.  The sudden loneliness made him sad; they had been in the middle of a very complimentary conversation regarding clothes.  She had promised to design him something fabulously flattering to replace his greyscale wardrobe, and even if the offer was hollow, he appreciated the generosity.

He walked into the corner coffee shop—the only one he knew of that specialized in French pastries—and stood in line for several minutes, wishing his beautiful friend would return.  Despite staring hard at every white object in the room, she didn’t reappear.  Ryker knew it didn’t work like that, but it didn’t hurt to try and summon the poised, generous pony, especially standing in a slow, noisy line of selfish New Yorkers.

“I hate this place,” he grumbled under his breath, even though it wasn’t true.  He loved New York.  He’d been bouncing from hotel to hotel there for nearly half a year.  But maybe that was long enough… maybe it was time to save up for a one way plane ticket to Chicago or Philadelphia.

“Or Ponyville,” he mused, chuckling sadly through his nose.

“Can I he’p you, sar?” snapped the bored-looking teen behind the cash register.

Ryker glared at her hatefully.  “Watch the attitude,” he growled, tossing a five dollar bill onto the countertop between them.  “A croissant and a water.”

“That’s six fitty,” she said with a defiant tilt of her head, never breaking eye contact with the increasingly angry customer.

“Six fifty?” he asked slowly.  “No, it’s not.  I come here, like, every week.  It’s four ninety five.”

“Not with the water, s’not.”  She raised her eyebrows challengingly.

His jaw clenched as he whipped the wallet from his back-right pocket, pulling out another two dollars and slamming them on top of the five.

“Keep the bucking change,” he snarled before lifting his hands.  The girl pulled her head back questioningly.

“Bucking?” she repeated with a mocking snort.  “Did’ju just say bucking?”

Ryker breathed deeply through his nose, trying to school his temper.  He hung his head, trying to imagine Mrs. Cake in place of the rude employee.  “Please give me my food.”

“Sure thing, deary,” he made himself hear, refusing to look up until a brown paper bag and bottle of water were pushed under his face.  He snatched them both in his right hand and stormed out of the shop, furiously grinding his teeth.

After walking around town for a good ten minutes, Ryker had calmed down.  He was getting better and better at controlling his temper, even if he had quite a ways to go.  And it was all thanks to his good friends from Equestria with all their sensible, sound advice and loving help.  He smiled as he thought of them: his six infrequent visitors… well, perhaps “infrequent” didn’t apply anymore, considering he had seen three of them within twelve hours.

He knew they weren’t real.  Even the first time Twilight Sparkle appeared in his dorm room almost a year ago, he was well aware of their true nature: illusions.  Delusions.  Hallucinations.

Ryker had made his fair share of mistakes in high school.  He blamed his uncaring parents for most of them, an argument that could be well defended.  Regardless of whose fault it was, recreational drugs had made their way into Ryker’s bloodstream.  Only a few times—he didn’t like the lack of control—but enough to remember the effects.  Those hallucinations were chaotic, confusing, terrifying.  The ponies were calm, collected… even sentient.  They seemed to have ideas and persuasions all of their own.  Ryker was often amazed at the detail projected by his own defunct brain.

He hadn’t always been so comfortable with their visits, though.  As he walked down unfamiliar streets of New York, he slipped his hands into his jacket pockets and gazed thoughtfully toward the clouds rolling lazily overhead.  All on their own.  Far from the ground.  He smiled absentmindedly at memories that seemed to swirl with the distant mists…

Twenty-one year old Ryker sat at his desk in a tiny room that he shared with some body building weirdo named Shane who was hardly ever around.  His laptop was open and he was studying for Physical Science 101, his least favorite class.  Ryker had always been more of a creative-type; he got 5s on both English based AP tests in high school.  Unfortunately, that meant he could skip Writing 101 and had to take Phys. Sci. instead to fill up his schedule.  Boo.

Ryker graduated high school at nineteen due to his early June birthday and spent two years saving up money for college tuition.  He refused to go into any amount of debt—he learned from his estranged father’s mistakes.  His mother was an alcoholic smoker who blew all her cash to feed her addictions, so he wasn’t planning on monetary aid from her, either.  When he felt like he had built up a large enough reserve to live comfortably, the Portland-born young adult applied to the University of Oregon and moved into its on-campus housing.

Fall semester passed too quickly for his liking.  He loved college: being away from his mom and the idiots at his high school was synonymous in his mind with heaven.  Add a daily increase of applicable knowledge, and Ryker’s green eyes practically glowed with joy.

Winter semester was no different, besides the awful Physical Science class he struggled through.  And as twenty-one year old Ryker poured over a Google Doc dedicated to its Final’s material, his lifelong inklings of OCD were never clearer.  His face was mere inches from the laptop screen; his breathing had synchronized with a subconscious tap of his right foot.  Finally he reached the last page of the document, sighing with relief.  Though most of it continued to pass over his head, Ryker felt confident that he would at least pass the upcoming, all-important exam.

Just as he was about to exit the window, his eyes flitted to the bottom corner of the screen.  Oddly enough, the position of the scroll bar seemed to suggest there was one more page to the Document, although the last unit’s material had clearly ended.  Curiously, Ryker used the mousepad to grab the dark gray bar, pulling it closer to the bottom of his browser.

The final page was nearly blank.  A single sentence at the top of the page drew Ryker’s attention immediately.  The size of its print was squint-worthy, but even then it made little sense to the freshman:

“Rarity is best pony.”

Ryker leaned away from the screen and scratched his head.  Rarity is best pony?  What on earth did that mean?

With practiced ease, he highlighted the words with the mouse and copied them, opening a new tab and pasting the unusual phrase into Google’s search bar.  Millions of hits arrived in a fraction of a second, dominated by images of a white, stylized, cartoon pony with elegantly curling purple hair.  Ryker had scoffed at the images at first but, mostly out of habit, continued to browse through the suggested websites and images.

It didn’t take long to find Friendship is Magic’s Wikipedia page.  From there, Netflix gave him his first taste of Equestria.

He didn’t stop watching for almost eight hours.  It was the first of many Pony-centered all-nighters awaiting in his near future.

Ryker embraced the show like a long lost sibling.  He spent every waking moment with the ponies on his mind, even while studying for the upcoming Finals Week.  The overpowering distraction threatened to lower his grades, but he struggled to uphold his study schedule while squeezing another episode into every conceivable window.

Only four days after his discovery, Ryker finished as much of the second season as he could; according to Wikipedia, the two-part Season Finale was yet to be released.  With over eighteen hours of active viewing under his belt, his mind practically vibrated with uncannily constant consideration of the colorful equines.  Why did they affect him so, he wondered?  What about them was so loveable and so addicting?  An unprecedented tingle warmed the cockles of his heart whenever he envisioned the ponies of Ponyville at play, but he never expected to see one outside his head.

Which is why he screamed so loudly when Twilight Sparkle appeared below his dorm window.

“Hello!” she had said, flashing a genuine smile and offering a little wave with her hoof.  “I’m Twilight Sparkle.”

Ryker leapt onto his meager bed and squeezed himself tightly into the corner, eyeing the grinning figure with terror.  She continued talking before he could conjure any stereotypical excuses.

“Whoa there, mister.  No need to get overexcited.  I assure you, I am completely and entirely scientifically possible.  I checked the book on extreme involuntary auditory and visual hallucinations twice.”  She smiled again, closing her eyes proudly.

Ryker shivered speechlessly.  Twilight popped open one eye and took in his fetal position before dropping her head toward the ground with an impatient sigh.

“Ryker, I’m not here to watch you cower,” she grumbled.

Finding his voice—or a squeaky, shaken version of it—Ryker asked, “Then why are you here?”

Twilight gave him an almost offended look.  “To help you, of course!  To teach you about the Magic of Friendship, just like Princess Celestia taught me.”  She seemed to rethink the statement, pawing at the ground innocently as she added, “Or, is currently teaching me.”

He still didn’t move.  Her eyelids drooped.

“Hey, Mister Lonely.  Don’t bother acknowledging my perfectly explained answer to your question.  You’re already welcome,” she droned sarcastically.

Nervously, Ryker shifted a little, blinking rapidly in hopes she would disappear.  Despite not having consumed a drug of any kind for more than four years, he worried this apparition was a long-term side effect ignited by his recent pony binge.  At least Shane wasn’t there to see it.  As if Ryker’s thinness wasn’t enough to tease him about.

“I don’t want you here,” Ryker found himself saying.  “Go away.”

Twilight shook her head happily.  Her pink-streaked bangs swung along with her movements.  For a moment, Ryker was shocked at the fluidness of its motion, just as impressed by his own mind’s mirage as he was with the show’s animation.

“I’ll leave when your roommate comes home,” she said, pointing to the empty bed at her side.  “Until then, we have a lot to talk about.”

Ryker gulped.  “We do?”

“We do,” she repeated adamantly, taking four or five steps across the narrow room to Ryker’s open laptop.  He watched her move with waxing fascination, already taking note of the hallucination’s ridiculous detail.  How was this possible?

Ryker’s memory was interrupted by a sudden smattering of raindrops against his face.  He was surprised to find himself in the middle of Central Park, still gazing reminiscently into the darkening sky.  A distant roar of thunder preceded a drenching downpour by a matter of seconds.  Disoriented, Ryker pulled his jacket’s hood over his head and sprinted through the infamous New York rain, trying to get his bearings.  Where was his hotel?  How long had he been walking?

Despite the storm, New York’s streets and sidewalks were nearly as busy as ever.  He pushed through the slickened crowds uncaringly, ignoring their annoyed shouts of protests dulled mostly by the encompassing drum of rain.  He peered through its veil for a recognized street sign.  Suddenly he found himself across the street from the same café he had purchased his breakfast from that morning.  Knowing now that he was a good five minute’s run from his hotel and perturbed by the thickening sheets of bitter rain, Ryker weaved through the grid of cars waiting for a green light and practically dove into the shelter of the small café.

His gaze passed warily over the counter.  To his physical relief, a large bald man had replaced the disrespectful cashier from before.  The scents of coffee and sweet croissants caught his attention as he took a seat at an elevated table for two, wondering at what point he had eaten his own baked good.  The clock on the wall read 6:18, meaning that nearly six hours had passed by unnoticed.  Was it safe to add “fugue state” to the signs of his deteriorating mind?  He had to laugh at his own strange behavior; otherwise he would start crying.

“E’scuse me, sir?” he heard the large cashier call out.  Ryker waited until the man repeated it to pay him any attention.  “Sir, in the grey.  You mind comin’ up here for a minute?”

Ryker caught a growl in his throat, dropping from his perch and shuffling stubbornly to the register.

“Yes?” he asked in a low, forced voice.

“Sorry to bother you, sir, but did’ju happen to come in earlier today?”

Ryker gave him a blank look.

“You ordered from Destiny, yeah?  The short brat with the gum?”

The description broke Ryker’s scowl.  “Yeah, that was me,” he answered.

The fat man shook his head with a pop of his tongue.  “I am so sorry about that, sir.  Really, I am.  I know it’s no excuse, but she got in a fight with her parents this morning… anyway, just so you know, I saw all that go down.  She shouldn’t o’ charged you that much for a bottle when you clearly just wanted a cup of free water.  I fired her, if it means anything to ya.  Hope this makes up for it.”  He tossed Ryker another water bottle and grinned briefly before turning toward another project.

Dumbstruck, Ryker held the plastic bottle limply in his right hand and blinked a few times.  “Uh…” he attempted, clearing his throat.  “Thanks, man.  I’m sorry too, shouldn’t have let something so little make me so angry.  Trying to work on that.  Croissants here are great, by the way.  I’ll definitely be around again.”

The employee—or maybe, Ryker thought, the café’s owner—twisted around just enough to give Ryker a meaningful smile and nod.  Feeling warmer inside, Ryker resumed his seat at the tiny table, spinning the water bottle between his hands while he watched a billion raindrops pound endlessly against the shop’s large window.  The streaming water made it hard to see outside, although the blurs of yellow taxis were still easy to identify.  He considered trying to flag one down but figured that would be nigh impossible in this weather.  Rainy days were gold mines for taxi drivers.

“Bright side,” Ryker mumbled wisely, cracking open the bottle’s cap and taking a healthy swig.