Who knew that finding yourself could be so literal?
Hello, my name is Pinkie Pie. It totally is. Like, seriously. For real.
Okay, okay. I'm not that Pinkie Pie. I'm one of the other ones. One of the clones. Now, now. Don't roll your eyes. It's honest and totally true. Super-duper-okay-lokie true. It all started about two years ago when the real Pinkie Pie—not me, the other, but I'm real too... Gosh this is confusing.
I hate it when ponies make frowny faces, so I'm going to force myself to smile.
My life back then was simple. It was fun. I like fun. Who doesn't? It's fun.
Anyway, I had a purpose. And that purpose was to have fun. Pinkie explained it all to me, with neat-o flashcards. Oh. Sorry. When I said 'Pinkie', I meant the first Pinkie. Let me start over.
Hello, my name is Cloney Pie. And I am a clone of Pinkie Pie.
Did you know that I had a problem where ponies were suspicious of me, and whispered about my possibly being a clone behind my back? I was super-worried too. I didn't want to be forced to watch paint dry! That would be so un-fun! I had to do something. But what could I do? I really was, I mean am, Pinkie Pie.
So I thought about it, but thinking was hard, and made me sad. So what I wound up doing was telling the truth. Lying gets confusing, because you have to remember all the ways you lied, and I hate being confused. But when I told ponies that I was a clone, they just rolled their eyes and shrugged it off, and I didn't have to worry anymore. I don't know why that worked, but it did.
Sorry, sorry! I got sidetracked again. I promise I'll try to stay focused better. I'll even give you a tall, chocolate-frosted, moist, rich, creamy, vanilla with a hint of lime, soft, chewy with little chunks of crunchy-crunch nutty-nut yum-yum-acorn and totally sweet, juicy, and, um, excuse me. I'm having a cupcake emergency.
...
Mmmm. That was goood.
I'm sorry I'm so easily distracted, but that's who I am. Pinkie Pie doesn't have these kinds of problems. She can focus when she needs to. As a clone, I have... issues. At least, I think it's because I'm a clone. I kinda hit my head way too hard once and, um...
Wait. I can't talk about Pinkie Pie like she's a different pony. I'm Pinkie Pie, and I always have to remember that.
So back in Ponyville, I set out to have fun with my friend Applejack. She's a sweet orange earth pony with totes-cute freckles and a mane like a bale of hay. I know she's my friend, because that's what the flashcard said. My job was to have fun, and to tell Pinkie about all the fun that she had. Because we're really the same pony, and that's what being a clone means.
But then I got stuck.
I had too many friends.
Fluttershy was having a tea party with her animals. She's the one who looks like a clear, blue sky frosted with a crescendo of musical colors. She's also my friend. The flashcard said so.
Anyway, I couldn't decide between her and Applejack, and thinking wasn't my strong suit—it still isn't... So we went back and got more Pinkie Pies. And even more Pinkie Pies, and I guess that things sorta-kinda-totally-okay-really-really got out of hoof. There were so many of us. And all we wanted was to have fun.
And who could blame us? There was a whole town full of ponies out there that were all our friends thanks to flashcards and we totes couldn't wait to have fun with them all!
Sometimes, after a long rain, I'll take a deep look into the superficial depths of a shallow puddle and reach for my reflection and say, “And into her own reflection she stared, yearning for one whose reflection she shared, and solemnly sweared not to be scared at the prospect of being doubly mared!”
and nothing happens
and i'm fine with that
…
So to make a long story short, I got distracted on my way back to town, and followed some butterflies, and got lost. But it's okay because I ran into a donkey who's super-friendly on the inside, but totes cranky on the outside. I'm sure he—
Wait, did I say 'totes'? No. I couldn't have said that. That's Manehatten slang. Pinkie Pie says 'totally', and I am Pinkie Pie. I really am.
So this donkey was overjoyed on the inside about the way I bounced on his wagon load of bales of hay screaming about how fun it all was. And it was. It was fun. I can still smell the horrid scent of freshly sown hay if I close my eyes and squeeze them tightly enough. Anyway, he looked like he was going to join in my happy-bouncy-joy-joy-fun, but there was an accident. I'm not sure what exactly happened, because I wound up with a bump on my head and it like really, really hurt, like, throbbing with rusty nails hurt, but that wasn't the worst part.
I guess he thought I fell off or something, but I actually wound up wedged between the chafing, splintery wooden boards and all the hay and it was really tight and really really bumpy and kinda itchy too. It was miserable and I don't like miserable because it has too many syllables and all of them are downers and trying to sing about it is totally lame.
But hey—hey, hay, get it? Uh, sorry. But hey, there was a plus side. The face that donkey made when he saw me again was almost worth it. Almost.
But then I got abandoned all alone on the side of the lumpy cobblestone street in the busiest city in the entire world. And, uh, now that I think back on it, that sounds kinda bad. But at the time, I didn't care. There were so many ponies, so many new faces, so many frowns, and I could turn them all upside-down!
I'm the Pinkie Pie who just keeps on giving Pinkie Pies and,
nevermind.
So I did my best on my own. And my best was like really, really good. I met like a hundred ponies on the first day! And I can even remember them too. There's Moonie and Hail Cab and Mr. Orange and Lyra and Neon Lights and his birthday's totes in three days and Rockenout and Plaid Stripes and Grumpy Cat—who's actually a dog pony, and Carrot, and, uh... Did you know that Carrot thinks he's a dwarf? Weird, huh? And I guess you get the idea.
Manehatten has hundreds of thousands of ponies! I still meet new ponies every day. And some ponies who are not so new. But I'm getting to that.
About three days after I arrived in Manehatten, I got word of what happened.
Wet paint.
Drying.
Dy—drying.
Do you know what it's like to feel so—so rejected? To feel like you're less than nothing? That the world is a joke that you're the butt of it? That everything is flat and lifeless? That you totally don't deserve to even exist and that it's all worthless because you expect to evaporate at any moment?
It's true some days are dark and lonely.
I had one of those days.
I wanted so bad for another Pinkie Pie to reach down and lift me up. And tell me that it's not so bad. And to—lift me up. But I can't. I couldn't. I-I was alone, but I wasn't. Because there was one other Pinkie Pie, but it was the wrong Pinkie Pie. It was me.
This all happened. It happened because I was a bad Pinkie Pie. If only I could have picked one friend, and didn't keep reaching for more Pinkie Pies to solve my problems. If only...
You know, I don't hate Pinkie Pie. It'd be easy to blame her for starting with me. But I like her. I have to. She's me. I'm going to keep my chin up, and I'm going to be the best darn Pinkie Pie that I possibly can be!
So I'd gotten upset. But I knew what to do. There was only one thing I could do—forget about myself and make my friends smile. But not my flashcard friends in Ponyville. I couldn't go back home. Uh...
Manehatten is my home. And to get back on my hooves, I had to make everypony in the whole city happy! It would be the biggest most funnest most loudest most catchiest impromptu song and dance ever!
It, um, didn't go so well. Who knew that spontaneous singing has restricted hours and can't take place within five hundred tails of a school zone? These ponies are almost as grumpy as griffins!
I... I...
To cheer you up, let me tell you that living in the city has been an amazing experience. I guess it's easier in a small town where you can actually get to know everypony really really well, but the city has a life of its own too.
By day, ponies march to the beat of their own drums as they strut about, full of self-importance but also kinda soft and gooey on the inside, where they know that other ponies are just like them, but the stress of city life kinda builds walls around their hearts and it can be hard to break through to the pony inside. It might sound rough, but it's charming really. Once you get used to it.
At night, those walls melt. Cider and stories flow like water off a duck's back. Heh. Silly ducks—walkin' in a row, splashin' in the rain, quackin' up a, um, oh right. Sorry.
Top Hat, the proud, pudgy, rat-tailed, blue-like-yummy-ice cream-sprinkles, hat-selling vendor on the corner of Saddle Row and Two Bit Lane, has a forceful distaste of carrot dogs. You see, he and Candied Apple, I wonder if she's related to Applejack? Anyway, that mare's a cute cream girl who changes outfits so often you'd think she was a dress-up doll and she's got a green mane done up in a cinnamon-swirl-style bun tucked under her perpetual hairnet. They both canvased the same area, shilling their goods to anypony who came by.
They often saw each other, and I guess they got close. Top Hat was kinda tipsy at the time, and he said some stuff, and I won't repeat it, but like, really, really close. As in they were naughty like married ponies close. But it was a lie.
She was envious of him. He made a lot more money, and she tried so much harder, or so she said. She wanted to hurt him, and she did. Why do some ponies have to be such meanie frowny-dumps? I don't know. They just are. Well, that left him bitter and sour and his sales collapsed and his savings drained away as he wallowed in his own grief. It was all deeply personal for him and please please don't tell anypony else because it's totes a secret between me, him, and the hundreds of thousands of ponies in Manehatten.
Did I mention that I'm a reporter?
I guess we can't all be bakers.
I seriously did mention that I'm a reporter earlier, though, right?
...
Gah! I'm such a scatterbrain! That's important! I swear to Celestia that I can't write worth cornstalks, and just ramble and ramble. I don't know how they put up with me. It's a problem.
The first step to fixing a problem is to admit that you have a problem... and then get an editor to fix it for you.
Silver Lining, my suave, silk-haired unicorn boss who's basically a walking suit, always smiles when I hoof over my reports, even as messy as they are, and that's the best part of my job. It's not the pay; it's the warm feeling you get when you do good. I like it. That and the office has great coffee too. It's hard and black, just like us staff. But, uh, a little secret: it's much much better with heaps and heaps of sugar.
You know, I have a knack for getting to know ponies really well. I make them smile, and that makes them happy, and they talk more, and I learn more and I can get the real inside scoop behind the scoop if you know what I mean. I guess Pinkie Pie has that same knack too, but she's a baker...
What am I saying!? Of course she does! She's Pinkie Pie, and I should know, because I'm Pinkie Pie too!
I... I...
Why do I keep telling myself that? I'm not even sure I believe it anymore. I guess it's true, technically, because I'm a clone and that means I'm an exact copy, or should be.
Maybe it's the city air, dirty with the scent of street grime from dull horseshoes and chipped cobblestones, greasy like overcooked vendor food, salty with the tangy dampness of the sea, airy with the perfume of uptrotting socialites, literally light from multitudes of sharp-angled reflections from the windows of the jutting skyscrapers, and musical with the steady hum of underground steam tunnels and the constant drumming of hooves on the slowly eroding cobblestones. Maybe it's me. I'm kinda-sorta thinking that perhaps, just a little, maybe, that Pinkie Pie and myself have started to drift apart.
That's silly.
I'm Pinkie Pie, and I can't drift apart from myself.
I'm rambling again, aren't I? Why do I do that? I can't get an editor to fix this, because it's personal, and my own story isn't one they'll print—not that I'd want them to. Not anymore.
If you ever see a story by the name of reporter forty-two, that's me. They won't use my real name, and given who I say I am, I understand. I really do. I like being a number. It's almost as much fun as being a clone.
Us reporters tend to hang out in certain places, and sometimes we bump into each other. It just so happened that in a certain diner, you know the one, I wound up one booth over from a living mustache and legendary chin, the hard-nosed orange pony by the name of Buried Lede. He was interviewing ponies for the inside scoop behind the grand opening of a new store on Saddle Row called Rarity for You. That name sounds familiar, kinda on the tippty-top of my pinkie-winkie tongue, and I feel awful for not knowing, but I can't place it.
So... time out.
Have you ever had an existential crisis where you're kinda lost in life, and don't know who you are? I don't want to be un-fun, but that's kinda my whole existence. I usually ignore it by focusing on my day-to-day life and breathing in the scent of the city. But I can't ignore it when it sits down next to me.
I guess I should be thankful. Not many ponies get a chance to literally come face-to-face with who they are. I know it was Pinkie because she honest-to-Celestia talked about making copies of herself and watching paint dry!
This is one of those moments that you run through your mind in the off chance that it actually happens. I had many things that I could have said, many things I could have done, many laughs we could have shared. I, uh, kinda panicked and hid under the table until she left.
It wasn't my proudest moment.
It was like seeing a ghost, only it wasn't a ghost, it was my own living body, and I was looking in a mirror, and I was the ghost. That, uh, makes sense if you're a clone. It was scary, okay? I got in the habit of laughing in the face of my fears, but what can I do if I'm afraid that my fears will hear me if I laugh?
So that's why I'm writing this. Because I want to face my fears. I've talked to ponies. I've heard stories. You can't keep things bottled up. They get worse.
But please, please, please promise me—whatever you do, don't tell Twilight! I infinireally don't want to watch paint dry! That's my way of saying really, really, really, really—so many reallys that you can't even count them. That many!
I—you know, it just occurred to me that I haven't even mentioned who I'm talking to. Total scatterbrain. That's me.
I'm talking to myself.
Dear Pinkie Pie,
It's been a long time since that fateful day at the mirror pool when I first met you—two years for you, a lifetime for me, but who's counting?
You wanted me to have fun in your place, and tell you all about the fun that you had. And while I'm sorry the mirror pool didn't work out, I can still do that. You see, you've had a lot of fun in Manehatten, and you've been a good Pinkie Pie!
I don't know why Top Hat is still mad at me. Shortly after that article ran, a lot of ponies reached out to him. They had stories of their own. He wasn't alone. Heh, that rhymed. That's silly.
Uh...
He made friends. They helped him get back on his hooves, and he's back in business again. Sure, he might not be as peppy as he used to be, and he cringes at the scent of greasy carrot dogs, but he's not in the gutter. That's a step in the right direction, and I helped. I hope he'll forgive me for fixing his life someday.
Wow, just listen to me talk. I've sure come a long way from bouncing up and down and shouting “Fun! Fun! Fun!” all the time. I'm living on my own. I have a wonderful job, and I'm doing what I can to make the city a better place.
It wasn't easy at first, but once I got in the duck's row, I felt like—well—like I was being the bestest Pinkie Pie I could be.
But then I saw you. And you—I—we—
Realizing that I could actually reach out and touch you made me realize something. That I could reach out and touch... myself. I was my own me. I could feel it.
Maybe...
Maybe I should stop pretending. I guess I've known all along, but I need to let go and acknowledge that I've become my own pony. I've become my own Pink—me. I... My hoof is shaking, but... it's... I'm—I'm okay. I'll be the bestest me that I possibly can be.
I'm sorry if this makes you sad, but you weren't really living in Manehatten. It was me all along.
Thank you. I never would have been brave enough to admit that if you hadn't stepped back into my life, as brief and scary as it was.
Your friend and formerly you,
Cloney "Pinkie" Pie
P.S. Can you please please please send me those flashcards? I have this super-nagging feeling that I've totes forgotten my, uh, your friends, and I really don't want to get them messed up if we ever meet. I'll even give you a cupcake emergency kit!
