Who, What, When, Where, and Why?
I have no teeth, yet I'm gritting them.
I have no voice, yet I'm screaming.
Who am I? I've been known all my life as Gummy - simply because of my lack of teeth. I've also been referred to as a "pet"; specifically by the annoying pink one and her associates. Never once have I been known by any other titles or accolades. I'm only known by my ties to the pink one and that is the extent of my acknowledgement. Surely I must be something much more than that. I didn't ask for this life.
I've completely lost track of who or what I am due to the pink one's insistence on my being here almost all the time. I can't even remember if I'm an alligator or a crocodile anymore. I've tried many times to discuss my dilemma with the pink one, but I don't think she understands my native tongue of blinking. I've resorted to showing my frustration by biting, but that has also failed to grab her attention. It merely gives her the giggles, and it further drives her to treat me like I'm a child's plaything. Her lifestyle also bothers me to no end. It's as if she is under the impression that her body has an infinite amount of insulin, and I feel a tremendous amount of guilt every day for letting her get away with it.
Today was another one of these days. The pink one, in a fit of boisterous joy, decided to bake another batch of fattening cakes and presumably devour every last morsel like she usually does (it baffles me to no end how she hasn't put on weight yet).
I loathe the smell of cake. It's all I've been smelling day in and day out and it's driving me mad. The lingering scent is comparable to having two honey combs shoved into your nostrils. I've had this happen before a very long time ago, and the resulting queasiness is the exact same.
The pink one gleefully babbled on about something - I don't know what she said. I never really understood much of what these horses said, nor do I really care. It's difficult; whenever they open their mouths, the sound that comes out is always a convoluted mess that's hard on the ears. Their voices always go up and down, up and down like a salmon anxiously swimming up a river. Why can't they communicate using a single noise like normal animals? Everybody understands you just fine if you just make a single noise.
In the middle of her bantering, the pink one's tattoo vibrated. I had no idea pony tattoos could do that. It was quite abrupt and weird, but it got her to stop talking so I was content.
The pink one got very close to my face and muttered something. Since biting failed to express displeasure, I wonder if licking her face would get her to go away. Oddly enough, it worked. Perhaps this would be a useful tactic in the future.
It looked like the pink one was leaving. Before she left, she poured a powder into a bowl, spun her hoof around, and stuck an egg beater into my mouth. Why would she do this? Did I do something to upset her? Is she knowingly torturing me and doing this for amusement?
Either way she's gone. I don't know for how long, but she's gone. I've been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Perhaps the pink one has granted me freedom. I will not let this privilege go to waste. It is about time I go out there and discover what my place is in this pathetic world.
* * *
These cobblestone roads are not built for alligator crocodiles. For one, they are incredibly wide and for two, they are very bumpy. I wish I had taken a better route. I believe this road could make a good allegory for life. It's big and bumpy and it seems to span forever, but before you know it it ends. But a road is merely a route that connects two destinations together. If life is a road, where are we trying to go? Heaven? Hell? The ground? Do we live to die or do we die to live?
To my side there is a small duckling. I recognize this duck from my earlier years. He (or was it she?) and I used to be the best of friends. I'm being overcome by the desire to eat him. I would opt for that option, but I'm not properly equipped for that. Perhaps we could discuss metaphysics together.
I tapped my tail on the ground to get his attention. He turned to face me.
"Quack!"
He's just as I remembered: concise and down to earth. He asked me how I'd been, to which I replied "Not well," in my native tongue.
Instead of staying to chat, the duck waddled away.
What a jerk.
Maybe I'm just misunderstood. Perhaps nobody has truly ever been my friend. Those whom I thought were my real friends were just very polite because they had no idea what I was saying. How can I find out my purpose when I can't even ask those around me?
Suddenly, I'm approached by a large, beige owl. I know this owl. He is one of the few friends I have now. I believe the pink one's associates refer to him as something roughly similar to "Howl Vicious". Howl Vicious perched himself on a small rock.
"Who?," he chirped. He asked me what I was doing outside. I told him that I was pondering my own existence: whether or not I served a purpose.
For a moment, there was a brief silence. I smiled because I could see in Bowel Fishes' face a tacit understanding of the words I spoke; completely unlike any other being with whom I have spoken in the past few months.
"Isn't your purpose to make Pinkie Pie happy by giving her company?" he asked.
I have no idea who this "Pinkie Pie" persona is, but from the name alone, I'm going to assume that this was the moniker by which the pink one was known. Probably because she is pink.
"Do you really think that I would care so much as a smidgen about the feelings of my captor? Why should I at all? She robbed me of my family, my friends, and my home!" I snapped.
"If you didn't want to be her pet, why did you stay with her?" Superstitious replied.
"Because I have no other choice," I said. "I've attempted escape before, the pink one always brings me back."
Towel Dishes looked at me with a blank expression, I could feel an aura of disdain coming from it. Or maybe defeat.
"In that case, I don't know what to tell you. The meaning of life is whatever you make of it, Gummy, I'm afraid I cannot change where your heart lies."
With that he flew away. I've thought about what he said, and I think Fergalicious is right. Life is what I make of it. Now that I know the question to life, I can find the answer to life too.
But if anybody tells me that the answer is 42, I swear to Reptile Jesus I will bash their skull in.
* * *
When finding out what you make of life, there are two sides of the mind you can consult: the carnal, more instinctive side, or the cultured, more learned side.
The carnal side is inherent and is needed in order to survive in nature, whereas the cultured side must be built and is needed in order to dwell within society. My carnal side tells me that the meaning of life is to eat, make babies, and survive. My cultured side tells me that the meaning of life is to accomplish something great for the good of all.
I've never really found a need for my cultured side, as I don't really dwell in a society nor do I really talk to anybody very much. I'm going to allow my carnal side to define what I want in life. I'm not of age to mate, so that is out of the question. I am famished, however, so I'm going to go and try to hunt down some prey. Even with my lack of teeth.
I managed to find a short tree with a nest full of baby birds. I reckon that my jaws are strong enough to crush their feeble bodies. The only problem is this: I am not confident in my climbing abilities. Was it alligators or crocodiles that could climb? Perhaps it was neither. Either way, I must eat food.
Immediately, I had difficulty getting the bark of the tree around my claws. Each and every attempt ended in a humiliating slide downward, like what happens when an awkward, plump house cat tries to climb up a tree. Like... Constantinople was it? No, it was Opal. I decided the best course of action was to use my jaws. To my surprise, it worked. It probably looks silly as hell to any onlookers, but it's getting me up the tree. I can almost taste those baby birds right now.
I heard a familiar voice let out a gasp. Then it shouted something garbled and panicky.
("What are you doing, Gummy?! Get down from there!")
Oh god.
It was the yellow one: the one with the "self-esteem issues". I hate her more than the pink one because she thinks acting like a naive, little girl is cute, but it's not: it's just sad. On top of that, she thinks she's one with animals or something and believes she has the power to petrify them just by looking at them. No wonder her animals are so nice to her. They're not nice because they appreciate her - they're nice because they pity her.
She knew exactly what I was doing up in that tree, and she gave me a smile that made me want to bite her face off.
"Bludyoumustbefisgdagewab hungry," she said. "Ffdontesfvcgworrymnillslgiveyoufds food."
It sounded like she was saying she was going to feed me (or eat me, but I'm not counting on this one). That's not how it goes for a crocodile alligator in the wild! You can't just pick it up and give it food! Yet she did just that. She picked me up and set me down on the ground just outside her cottage. She placed a bowl in front of me that read "Angel".
I got my hopes up because I thought that would mean I would be fed that annoying rabbit, but then she brought out the bag. It was a large, white bag that smelled like manure blended with cake and meat. Way to pulverize my hopes, yellow one. She poured a pile of brown pellets onto my bowl and stood there eager with anticipation. The yellow one made another series of noises.
("It's an organic mixture I made myself. Don't you like it?")
From what I could tell, the tone of her voice carried an undeserved pride. How could anybody take pride in feeding anyone this filth? Before I could spill the filth onto her floor, she quickly scooped a hoof-full and shoved it into my mouth.
"Mmmm!" she said. Is she trying to imply I am enjoying having this horse manure in my mouth? How could she not see the very tears in my eyes from the taste? She must think they're tears of joy. What a moron.
I can't take this anymore. I'm starting to get the ghastly feeling that it is impossible to survive on my own in this pony land. Besides, the community is small enough that they'll know whenever I attempt an escape and promptly return me to my "owner" the pink one. I suppose I ought to accept the fate I've been given.
The yellow one returned me to the pink one's residence. Well here we are again. It's always such a pleasure. I hopped back onto the table the pink one left me on and assumed the same position the pink one left me in: egg beater and all.
Perhaps my true purpose in life is to make the pink one happy. No, that can't be it. Maybe I'm a character in a TV show who's main purpose is to not serve a purpose and be a part of the scenery whilst doing funny things for the amusement of the audience. Yes, this one sounds more plausible. Now that I know my purpose, my quest is complete. There is still one question in my mind: if I now know my purpose, why am I still sad?
