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My name is Diamond Tiara, and I'm confused. Do ponies like me or hate me? I've always thought of myself as more popular and cooler than the other ponies. But am I wrong? What makes a pony popular and cool?

I have a bunch of people that do whatever I say. I have a best friend, and she sticks by me no matter what's obviously something good about me. I used to think I was perfect. I'm rich, beautiful, mature, popular, and flawless. But then I stopped to think about what I was doing one day. I saw the tears in Sweetie Belle's eyes, and I remembered what it felt like to cry: awful.

Why do I do this to my classmates? What did they do to deserve this? Sure, they're blank flanks, but that's only because they're too dumb to realize their special talents. Even I've figured it out, and yet they never even consider the possibility of what's right underneath their noses being their special talents. My talent? It's not that special, really. Sure, I love it, and I wouldn't dream of ever having anything else, but it's nothing spectacular.

I pause at the door, debating whether or not I should just go home. No harm done if I don't do anything, right? But then I picture her face once more, and I know I have to do this.

I raise my hoof and knock unsurely - once, twice, three times. And I wait, shivering, even though it's not cold. I should've gone home, because now there's no going back.

The door opens, and I let out a little squeak, trembling as I shrink back and cower in fear from the figure in the doorway.