So far, I’d say that my life has been OK. It’s had its ups, as well as its downs, but then again doesn’t everyone’s? I’d like to think that some ponies had it easier than I have, but I feel that what I've been through has only made me stronger, wiser, and more genuine, than anything else could have.
It's funny how one little, insignificant thing, like sitting on my porch, watching the young ponies run by, marveling their new talents and purposes, can have such a profound effect on one's thought process. How these young, carefree colts and mares can make someone like me think about where they've been in live, and where the road I'm now is going to lead to next.
I'm sorry I've been rambling on without introducing myself first. My name is Overdrive. I'm a pegasus, and I live in Ponyville, among my many friends, my loving family, and so many others I have yet of receiving the gift of meeting. I am a successful businesspony, loving husband, and friend to many. It wasn't always like this, though.
I was born into what would be considered a lower-middle class family, in the community of San Burrito. It's a neighborhood several miles outside of Applewood. It wasn't the greatest, by any means. My family wasn't the wealthiest, and often we had to make do with what we had. We were fortunate enough to avoid the situation that a majority of my school friends often visited: squalor living conditions. You see, San Burrito was a run down portion of the city, filled with poverty, violence, and destitution as far as the eye could see. Homeless communities could be seen on almost every block, soup kitchens were mainstays in the community, and most ponies could only afford food via food stamps, clothes from the Red Cross stores, and medicine from the local clinics; clinics that operated with limited supplies and very rudimentary equipment and technology.
Those that could somehow manage to afford it took up residence in small, cramped apartment buildings. They offered the bare necessities needed to live, but not much else. Colts and fillies went to school as most their age would, but it was often to a school lacking essential funding. Foals had to share textbooks, bring their own lunches from home, and often ended up walking or flying home themselves. Because of the danger the area often posed, parents would leave their jobs early to ensure their foals would get home safe and sound. To most ponies, it was every day life, living this sort of existence day in and day out.
My family was fortunate enough to have our own house. It wasn't much, something near 900 square feet, leaking pipes, and a cracked foundation, but it was home nonetheless. The house had been passed down from generation-to-generation since it was built by my great-great-grandfather many long years ago. My father, a pegasus by the name of Crimson Blast, and my mother, an earth pony by the name of Lilac Aura, maintained this house for years. He was a mechanic by trade and talent, and knew a few things about home maintenance in the meanwhile. She was a homemaker, often found sewing, knitting, cooking, cleaning, or whatever else needed done.
My father used to own and operate his "own slice of heaven," as he often put it, a few blocks away from where we used to live. It was a basic shop, small in size, but carried his huge heart and soul, as he would often give out of the kindness of his own heart over monetary concern, to guarantee his customers were satisfied, happy, and safe.