Author's Note

I have given this a lot of slimming and editing. Even added some more details. But I want to thank Bad Dragon, Enclace2277, Crimson Dawn, Doctor Disco, and the many, many awesome members of The Writers for their constant advice and Looking For Editors group for sending me sevenfromeleven to help me. Of course, I can't forget you, dear reader, and the many people who have favorited this story so far. Not once have I gotten unreasonable suggestions and all criticism so far has been nothing but constructive. Thank you for having such a wonderful community!
-L3thal

Whats wrong with being a little Selfish?

"Wake up."

There is a warm whisper in my ear as a familiar, velvety hoof strokes my mane. Groaning, I slowly open an eye just wide enough to make out the visage of a gorgeous mare staring at me with soft emerald eyes. Eyes dreaming sweetly of memories from last night. Memories that slip past the cracks in my head are returned to me with each kiss we exchange. Soon our tongues dance to the music of soft moans and heated breath. . .

Some party ended up being held in my honor. Or at least that was the excuse. My music just went platinum so I had high spirits all around. And by high spirits, I mean strong bourbon in a frosted glass. It was held in the dining hall of my flat. While everypony else did what tickled their fancy, I sat alone at a red table.

I heard trotting that came to a halt as it stopped in front of me. Looking up, I noticed one of the only mares not in a fancy dress. Lovely green eyes, a toasted almond coat, and a mane that could be compared to a dark chocolate.

"If you're lookin' for autographs lady, I'm not in the mood."

I waited for her to get mad, call me a douchebag, and then walk away. But she didn't. Just looked at me, cocking her head. Closer inspection showed me that she was more mature compared to the usual broads who wander toward this table of mine. Not in a bad way, just refined. The sour look on my face grew interested.

"Actually, I was just wondering why you're here by yourself, this soiree is about you, after all, Mr. Two-tone."

"You got patience ma'am I'll give you that," I chuckled. "Look around! You see anyone comin' to me to share a drink or congratulations? Nope! Just a bunch of no-talent schmucks kissin' up to bigger no-talent schmucks in hopes of gettin' a quick ride. This ain't my celebration, this is an opportunity for ponies to get their own spotlight."

Sure it sounded a bit like jealousy, but was honest. I looked back down at my drink, swirling it a bit in my hoof.

"I didn't even invite half of these bozos," I mumbled hotly.

"Well, why don't we share a drink, if you don't mind of course."

I shot back up, ready to give her another snarky remark. I'm met with a sincere grin. I decided her offer was honest and took her up on it.

"Why not," I puffed.

The earth pony pulls herself a seat. She proceeded to stop a server and took a martini from the tray. She placed the olive into her mouth and fiddled with the toothpick. She raised her glass and I followed suit, clanking them in a toast.

"To your special night and new company!" she offered.

"Whatever floats your proverbial boat, lady."

She took a dainty sip from her drink and savored it. I on the other hoof guzzled mine down and sighed a satisfied breath before setting it down next to a small collection of similar glasses.

"You got a name, lady?"

"Let's worry about you, hun," she replied.

Obviously dodging the question, but not in a rude way. Seemed this mare was actually concerned with me. Maybe she thought I'd toss myself off the roof or use my wings to fly up high into the clouds only to let myself fall back down.

Or maybe I needed to stop thinking about that kind of scenario.

"It's more than that, ponies stealing your thunder?" she inquired.

"That obvious, huh?" I retorted.

"You're swallowing a glass an issue, hun."

Normally I'd tell a girl to buck off if my irony didn't drive them away, but the drink must've put me in a talking mood.

"Let's just say that none of my success tastes as sweet as you'd think, dollface.

She perked up at the nickname, blushing. I'm glad she took it as a compliment. Proud that I used it as one too. She did have a perfect face. I racked my brain for something to break the awkward silence I left as I admired her.

"Let me ask you a hypothetical. . . "

She nodded contently, ears at alert so she wouldn't miss any details.

"Let's say a certain musician from Manehattan who used to have a naive outlook on the entertainment industry starts seein' that there is enough back stabbin' in it to make a murderer sweat. . ."

She nodded along, sipping her drink and leaned her head on her hoof.

"Would you call him paranoid for thinkin' Canterlot's no different?

"Not at all," she poised. "Ponies of Canterlot can be rather pompous after all, you pointed that out already."

She looked over her shoulder with a scrunched grimace on her face. Obnoxious producers yacking with mares half their age on my couch were the source of her ire.

"You'd have to be a fool to think anywhere is that perfect."

I nodded my head in silent agreement.

"Just needed to make sure I'm not imagining it."

"I'm sorry by the way, I didn't get an invitation either, I assumed it was a walk in type of thing." Her voice actually holding regret behind it.

"Forget about it," I reassured her. "At least you got class and took the time to talk to me."

"Did you invite any friends?" she asked. “They must have abandoned you here, huh?"

"Nah, my pals are busy. My agent's grindin' overtime, my boss is out with the Misses, and my only other buddy runs a bar several blocks from here."

She sips a little more of her drink, eyeing me bewildered. The realization must've struck her by now. She started to tap a hoof against the table in frustration.

"Then who DID you invite?"

"No pony," I stated calmly."Save for one reporter who wanted an interview, though I think she found more interesting ponies to talk to."

Her mouth hung open like I'm down to my skin. I thought her reaction was just exaggerated, so I laughed. But as my chuckles faded, she still looked at me like a mare caught in headlights of a speeding train.

"Well, It's true," I asserted.

"So everypony in this room crashed your house, bringing alcohol, appetizers, and ponies to serve them?"

"Of course not!" I dismissed caustically, "Aside from the servants, all the booze and grub came from ME."

"ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE!", she yelled through clenched teeth.

She stamped a hoof on the table seethed in anger. If not for the alcohol that mellowed me out, I would've been just as livid as she was. That cute face of hers recoiled into a cherry red.

What she did next startled off any quips I had left. She climbed on top of the table glaring over the partygoers. Before I could stop her, she started ranting at the uninvited guests with the unbridled fury of a woman scorned.

"YOU DARE ENCROACH UPON HIS HOME, EATING HIS FOOD, DRINKING HIS WINE, BRINGING STRANGERS AND HARLOTS FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT!?

Those moochers looked up from their tables with flustered faces. Even the band stopped playing. All eyes were on this mare who daunted over my table.

"SHAME! Using his moment of glory to boost yourselves up from the gutter! And to think I thought Canterlot was all but lowly! Away with you all! You are in the way of this young stallion's moment! He did NOT ask to share it with you!"

The crowd went still. She stood enraged. Her chest heaved with outrage. I didn't expect her to get so angry for a stranger.

Well, a person she never met that is, I am in the papers.

She waited for a response, or maybe for the mob to just leave. They very well may have until some moron piped up.

"Show us the goods!"

Now it was my turn to be mad. I stood up, my chair screeched across the floor. Fighting the urge to chuck my seat into the skull of the closest patron, I benevolently shared my thoughts on the matter with the masses.

"You heard dollface, if you freeloaders don't get the buck outta of my house I'm gonna phone every paper in town before havin' the fuzz drag your sorry flanks out!" I noticed the mess. "You better clean this shit up too!"

Everypony there was afraid of the tabloids, so they all scrambled.Servers wiped up spilled foodstuffs and spirits. All of them wiped down and cleaned frantically. They tidied up my dining hall and reorganized every table they could. All except for a blue mare with a reporter badge and a fair mane who ran up to us, wiping something white and sticky from her mouth.

"Barry Two-Tone, I'm Daily Scoop of the Canterlot Inquiry. We scheduled a. . . "

"Piss off you blond broad, ya blew this night more ways than one."

Defeated, the reporter leaves behind the rest. Some carried bags of garbage, both in the form of empty bottles and drunken leeches.

"More ways than one?" my savior snickered.

"You didn't notice her little schmutz?" I smirked, "I've heard of down and dirty journalism but that was ridiculous."

We both busted a gut at my lame joke. Doll face must have thought it was hilarious because she was hunched over in stitches.

"We better make sure they didn't leave anything!" she wheezed.

So we browsed along, checked every nook and cranny of the place for any leftover messes. We went over to my minibar, where she found a tipped bottle laid out on the counter. Its contents spilled all over the other side of the counter and floor .

"Looks like they wasted an entire bottle of wine," she informed me, "My word, this bottle is old!"
she said as she read the label.

My eyes widened "Wait, how old?"

She gave me to bottle, and I read over it. My fears confirmed. The bottle was 15 years old. Tears leaked from my eyes. That night, I was spent. I slumped down on my haunches with the emptied wine bottle in one hoof, sobbed into my other.

"Oh come now, it's just wine, not spilled milk."

I looked up at her in my blue mood. She wasn't wrong, it was wine. But it meant something to me.

"It. . . It was sposed' to be for my family," I croaked.

"I don't understand."

"My old man gave this to my mom when I finished singin' lessons."

Doll face finally realized the sentimental value of that old jug of juice. Couldn't judge her for that. I spent the entire night drinking, so it was obvious she would've concluded that I was an alcoholic.

She joined me in my sorry state. Trying to hold me while I sobbed over an empty bottle, I fell into her lap. She settled for rubbing my neck while I wept.

"You know what he told me when he got it?" I swallowed. " He said I want you to hold on to this. And when you and your sister come to that age and you make it singin', all of us are gonna dust this bottle off and have a drink to celebrate."

"I didn't mean to tease you like that," she rued.

I hadn't acknowledged her apology. My emotions demanded freedom, even if they had to take advantage of my stupor to do it. She had ears, I had a mouth, so we used them. My sorrow was reserved. I told her every detail I could in a collected, shaky voice. Good thing she wasn't a reporter in sheep's clothing.

"We never saw him again after that," I grieved. " He just left me, my twin sis, and my pregnant mom, I kept the bottle so we could celebrate with what I had left."

She kept comforting me. I couldn't see her do it at the time, but I bet those eyes of hers were locked onto me.

"We couldn't go nowhere, not without his money, so we ended up on the street. Mom had a foal on the way, so she couldn't work, and I was only a kid. The shelters would take us for a while, but the older I got, the more they pushed to toss me out. Their policy musta' been "Colts are fine as long you stay cute."

I rotated my head in her direction, my pale blue eyes asked if I should just stop, she waited for me to keep going so I laid back down.

"I made some friends with other kids my age with a similar predicament," I told her. "Equal opportunity for ya, wit' how hard it was to get work in Manehattan, we had a little plan. See, we would stash all the money we made from whatever job would take us, in one big pool and share it between all four of us. They were a bit older than me, so they gave me a larger cut. . ."

"I used that money to rent us a place, found a steady job at a candy store." I smiled in relief at a happy memory. "The ponies there were so nice, they gave me candy to share with Bay Leaf and mom. My mom was so proud of me, she let me name the newborn, I named her Fennel."

"What about your friends?" she questioned me.

The memory of that particular thought renewed the waterworks at their slow, burning pace.

"They lived In a cardboard shack during the winter, in an alleyway. I got to live with mom and my sisters in a cozy apartment. . . "

"Oh" was all she replied with.

"I was the one who found them, I called paramedics to the alley where they lived, but there was nothing they could do," I groaned. "Cause of death was hypothermia."

I felt a wet spot touch my cheek. She was crying too. What did I expect? It was one of the worst moments In my life.

"Those poor bastards gave me all those bits and that's how I repay em," I growled at myself.

She attempted to diffuse my guilt."Mr. Two-tone, it wasn't your fault."

I nodded along, but deep down still I felt it was my fault. If I didn't take the money, they would have never frozen to death. The could have spent money on blankets or coats, or hell, even rented a roof over their heads.

I sat up to address her. She wiped off a few of her tears, giving me a better view of her face. Funny. Doll face carried herself as an older mare would, but didn't have so much as a crease on her.

"Can I ask you another hypothetical, doll?"

"Yes, you may."

"Is it pathetic for a 22-year-old stallion to cry in a stunning mare's lap over things like this?"

"No," she said firmly, without a shred of doubt.

"Good. Well, it's been nice talkin' doll."

I got up to walk away while I still had a sliver of dignity. But I ended up falling back down on my rump. Thought it was the drink that heavied me at first, but when I wheeled around I noticed she had her hoof locked with my own.

"Knock it off," I whispered bluntly.

She only gripped me tighter in defiance. She leaned close enough to where her lips hovered over mine. I smelled cinnamon and brown sugar perfume.

"You better not do that out of pity, cos' I stopped takin' charity a long time ago."

"It's not pity," she murmured," It's common ground."

I raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

"I'm. . . between homes myself," she said, giving me a quick kiss.

She planted another one on my lips,"Ponies in my life gave me so much so I could survive too."

I returned the favor with passion, she surpassed me with the next one. I stood on my hind legs, then picked her up. She wrapped her legs around my hips as our mouths began a furious battle.

"This better not be out of pity, " I huffed.

"It's not!" she whined.

"Why me, why not somepony else?" I managed to ask between her lips.

"I, I don't kno-WMRPHPH!"

I rested her on the counter. Her words were silenced by my tongue in her chops. My sudden entrance into her mouth caused her to shudder in my grasp. I moved my tongue against hers while she traced circles with her hooves that lowered from my chest down to my belly. Warmth rushed down my thighs, making me poke her belly with it.

My handle crowded between us, her body ground against it. After a few minutes of our improvised foreplay it stood excitedly at the spontaneous attention. I removed my lips and tongue from her deep within her muzzle, with a heavy pop that left our saliva bridged between us.

Her cheeks flushed, giving her tan face a healthy pink hue. Both of us breathed in desire and exhaled lust. Lust that condensed in the air from our encounter.

"You sure you want this?" I soberly asked.

In her eyes, even the blind could see her answer. But I had to be sure. I had to hear her answer from her own lips.

"YES!"

Sliding my hips between hers, I parted her legs, touching her marehood with the tip of me. Still, I hesitated. I didn't want my time with her to be a pity-fueled fling. But her eyes were all the proof I needed. I put my skepticism aside and slid into her tender, wanting form.

And the rest was history. . .

Breaking the kiss brings me back to the present. She smiles warmly at me and I smile back, her hoof caresses the creamy yellow coat on my cheeks. I respond by massaging her chocolate mane, admiring how the little rays of sunlight light kiss it delicately to give a spotlight to dust motes so they can dance to the rhythm of two bodies breathing in harmony.

I got a knack for poetics; Comes with the profession I suppose.

I have no inclination as to which of us succumbs again to lady lust, but if was a betting stallion, it has to be me. We go nuts in each other's embrace. I never, in my entire life, felt this crazy for some pony I just met, especially with how much that I fool around. We make out for what feels like hours. My tongue slips around her own, both of us sampling the walls of each other's cheeks. We pull away, leaving a cold gap between our lips compels us to dive back hungry for warmth.

I find myself on top of her, she runs her soft, intricate hooves up the sides of my back, stopping at my shoulder blades to trace little hearts on me. I kiss her neck, eliciting a giggle from my bedmate. Running my tongue on the spot my lips mark, I suckle gently. I take her hind legs in my front hooves and gently spread the long slender appendages apart before . . .

She snaps me out of the moment, tapping my shoulder, signaling me to move me off.

With the mood six feet under, I sit up. I feel a throbbing in my neck like needles. I rub the back of my neck, perhaps it's been acting up from how I sleep on it, but judging by the afterglow of bliss the caramel-colored mare radiated, it's obviously something to do with the subtle flavor of her in my mouth.

The mare wipes off some of my drool from her neck. Embarrassed, I squint my left eye at the clock. The right one closed because Celestia's blazing sun isn't being as subtle as my bedmate's method of waking me. The time, seven thirty.

“Shit,” I mutter in a combination of tiredness and a hangover. The aftertaste of bourbon hangs around in my mouth shamelessly.

Is that what other mares taste and smell of me when I bed em?

"Sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," I grumble. My head is throbbing from both embarrassment and booze.

"It's okay, just need to get going is all," she chirps blissfully.

Reluctantly, I drag myself out of the bed to my dresser, fumbling for something to wear. Most ponies tend to only wear clothes when the occasion called for it, but a good impression starts with your wardrobe.

Not that I’m vain or self-absorbed. Though put some strong liquor in me and folks will want to take an ice pick to their eardrums because I'll brag until I pass out.

Normally I'm in a bitter mood on work days. I just don't have too much gusto as other ponies when tackling my career. Today I don't feel so bitter. If anything I’m ecstatic, this girl is really nice, pragmatic even. As soon as I get her name it will become my full on duty to try a serious relationship with her. A shame I keep making an ass of myself.

Masking my frustration the best I can, I struggle to keep my composure, but when a beautiful mare begins to stifle some laughs while I half-choke out by putting on a dress shirt, it becomes a tall order. I never usually look this uncool in front of a girl, not in my entire career. That's no brag.

“Celestia, help me not blow this one too.”

Like a guardian angel, the nameless mare swoops in pulling the shirt over my head, she tickles my ribs with a hug from her loving hooves and plants a few more extra kisses on my cheek.

"You're not going to join me in the shower?", she pouts.

Takes the strength of a giant to shake my head no before I answered her.

"I would love too, babe, but I have work. I'm sorry, I really did have fun last night,"

"Oh, we certainly did, Mr. Two-tone," she purrs. "The things you can do with that tongue . . ."

"Call me Barry."

I'm beaming like an idiot at her compliment, each second I feel more and more like a clown in her eyes. Oh Celestia, her eyes.

I turn around to look at them, but I drop my head to blush at the floor instead. Those pearls of hers are just too much to handle. Pathetic, a grown stallion like me fawning over a mare with no name, it feels like high school and I'm crushing on the teacher.

"But honestly, it's not just the physical stuff, but the company, I seldom get time for serious datin' with all I got on my plate these days, and these parties the industry big wigs keep havin' always end up bein' a bit drainin' and lonesome.”

I feel my face turn cloudy.

“It gets harder to tell who actually is interested in me and not the life I'm living.”

She looks at me without pity, rather soothing regard. The angel nuzzles my neck. Sure enough, that stupid grin of mine stretches back across my mug.

“I get it," she whispers to me."Once you have something other ponies don't they tend to do anything they want to have it.”

I nod my head in agreement, “ It's disgustin'."

Couldn't help myself from looking stupid in front of her. But if I'm gonna look like a mook, I may as well do one more stupid thing. So I turn to face her, opening my heart for her.

"Listen, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it, doll. I've only known you for a little bit and you’ve been one of the most realistic ponies I’ve ever met, now I'm only good with words on paper so forgive me bein’ blunt.”

I swallow hard, I take a hold of her hooves with mine, giving me enough courage to look into her eyes, she mouths out the word "Yeah". My chest tightens and my hooves get sweaty.

I should've known better to than to pray to Celestia to stop me from looking like a tool. Clearly, she didn’t answer, then again, she's royalty, not a literal goddess so no point in cursing her name here.

“You think we could continue seein’ each other?"

She goes from sweet and flirty to awkward and worried. Looking away, her gaze is burdened by guilt. She lets go of my hooves in shame. I don't understand why she would look like that. If anyone should be ashamed, it should me. I keep calm, but in my head, I was kicking the crap out of myself for being all sudden.

"You idiot! You buckin' mook! You came on too strong, too needy! You call yourself a stallion!?”

She manages to find her answer.

"Oh. . . I thought this was a one-time thing,"

My heart drops like an anchor.

“It. . . doesn't have to be. . .”

I look like a moron, I came off desperate, now I'm about to look like a whiny little foal to boot. I'm more upset than angry. Feeling a pang in my eyes, I bow my head.

She looks back at me. Her face an open book, I read the expression. She was just as upset with herself. Her bright eyes and optimism replaced with a face of shame and regret for speaking those words to me.

“Oh Tony, I didn't mean it like that," she apologizes "It's just we only had one night together, I don't think we. . . ”

I raised a hoof and gently pressed it against her lips. She doesn't need any excuse, not for a bum like me. If she chose to change her mind, she will see the depressing stressful existence that is being around me.

“Nah, you're right, it was a dumb idea, I don't have the best ,uh, resume for romance anyway.”

We both sit there on my bed, all quiet. Not even a peep. The silence could wake the dead from their coffins. I felt so greedy. Judging by her face, so does she.

"I shouldn’t have pitied you into this, both last night, this mornin'," I lament.

"It's okay," she coos, ” I wanted. . . no, WEneeded to feel loved. All of those feelings we shared, they are real.”

She tries to find the right words,"It's just. . . one night isn't enough to learn enough about a pony before dating them."

She's so sweet, so sincere, her words lifted my heavy heart a little. Even if she is making an excuse, every word from her mouth was a drink of fresh water. I remember something I need to do before she walks out on me, forever.

"Can I at least have your name?"

She was about to say something but hesitates.

"I'm just not ready Tony, until then Doll Face or even Dolly is fine!" she squeezes me, "Please don't take it the wrong way, you showed me a good time!"

She pecks me on the cheek before walking toward the bathroom door.

"You want any breakfast, or a coffee," I mumbled.

"No thanks, I can get something on the way home," she replies, oblivious to the hint of melancholy in my voice.

“I'm not gonna see you again, am I?”

She stops for a moment, then faces me. I avoid her eyes, but she puts a tender hoof under my chin and ushers me toward her hypnotic gaze. Her green orbs so full of life, meet with my sad-sack excuses for baby blue. The magnetism of our kindred infatuation leaves us lip-locked. Kissing her took my mind off my burdens. Soon the urge gets the best of us. She straddles me and our kiss intensifies.

I don't want her to stop, ever. I don't want to feel the things I do when I'm alone. I don't wanna use booze to wash it all away. I just want to get lost in her. Her cinnamon scent, her motherly empathy. I would trade all of this bitter success for her to spend just one more night with me. This is real love, and she is sharing it with me. Not a fling, not pity, real love.

But I can't keep doing this to her. We only had one night. Angels like this deserve better than a one night stand for a special somepony, especially a lousy one like me. So, against everything my body was screaming, I cut the circuit that is two lovers' lips intertwined.

"You're right, we haven't spent enough time, the last thing I need to do is leave you guilty for me being self-centered."

She smiles at me again, but this time, it doesn't lift my spirits, so I fake one back.

“Nonsense, I told you this is okay!" her voice reassuring. She stares at me with bright eyes,"I promise on everything I have to my name, we will see each other again.”

"When?" I ask like I'm walking on eggshells.

"Don't worry, I'll find you!"

Sincere or not, I assume she’s lying to me to make me feel better.

She trots into the bathroom, shutting the door. I can hear the sound of running water and not too long after, steam rolls from under the door between me and her.

I may as well freshen up too.

Getting up I eye my cherry ruffled mane in a mirror on my dresser. I start brushing, letting a few locks of hair hang over my left eye. With no other distractions, I think about dollface.

An angel cast from bronze. Shows up at the right place, at the right time, pulling me out of a funk like that. It's almost too good to be true. Never giving me pity, just sympathy and love.

Pity is a hell of a thing. To me, pity and sympathy are so close to the border that I rather not have either. So much so that even with dollface, I watch and listen to her looking for traces of it. I didn't find pity anywhere. Just a mature mare who suffers like I do.

Canterlot is full of pity. A direct result of a bunch of overly peppy ponies living here. Makes me second guess why I chose to move. Ponies both in and around Canterlot are big on some kind of "Magical power of Friendship!" shtick.

I don't buy it, not after Manehattan. If you can be exploited, ponies will exploit you, no matter where they are from. At least this friendship thing meant Canterlot ponies liked to mingle and "mingle" meant party, and parties meant free booze, so that's a plus.

I've been to just about any shindig had in Canterlot. Name it, I probably attended. Performing at the Grand Galloping Gala, singing a song wrote especially for the Princesses, fondue parties with fashionistas who have me try their fruity ensembles, a cutiecinera where some brat demands I waste the night by dancing with her, even raves where I get blitzed on cherry vodka and shrooms.

More often than not I have private parties where I awake to the fuzzy image of multiple mares sharing my bed. . . and in one instance, a griffon who gave me some nasty love marks with her talons and beak in the heat of the moment.

Griffon girls are freaky like that.

The vicious cycle of this cutthroat industry, parties with ticks of society, the meaningless sex with strangers just takes a peice of me every day. Now the one person that may actually give two bits is getting dried off, ready to walk out the door. Has me feeling unpleasant.

And what do I do when start feeling somethin' unpleasant?

I answer my question with one word, "Drink."

Shuffling over to my nightstand, I open the drawer with my mouth and reach a hoof for the best damn friend I got. Cloudsdale Hard Cider, fastest numbing you'll get in a bottle. Accompanying it with a shot glass for myself, I look over to the bathroom door. I’d offer doll face some but I don't want to spook her into thinking I’d drug her. Besides, who drinks this early in the morning beside from a lush?

I may a lush, but I am not that stupid.

Some people see a shrink, others talk to family about their problems, and some ponies I met on the red carpets do stuff that even I would find excessive. But me? I hate people who get paid to care. I don't want my family to worry and my friends have their own lives to worry about. When I have a problem or a bad memory that comes knocking I drink.

Bad day at the studio?
Drink.
Some reporter giving me a headache?
Drink.
About to watch the only mare I've slept with, that I ever truly invest into emotionally in years leave?

“If you ain't figured it out buddy, you need a CAT scan” I mutter to the bottle.

With this magic tonic, I can stop caring about the fame, the money and the parties. I don't have to care that I can't trust a single pony in Canterlot, save for three counting dollface.

I would accept four, but one's not a pony, the other is a literal pig.

Booze dosn’t talk back, it doesn't want anything from me. Booze doesn't judge. Takes me as I am. Almost like doll face does. The perfect mare.

I down the shot and smack my lips.

“Well buck me, so down inda dumps youse tawkin' toowa bottle,” my accent becoming less and less subtle as the alcohol dulls my nerves. "Thazza anada drink…”

I raise the glass to make an unimpressive toast to someone I may never see again.

“Here’s ta you, doll face.”

I toss back the glass and slosh the liquid gold in my mouth. I kick myself in the nads mentally for that compliment too. A pet name that was sincere at first only to let my emotions turn it into something ironic.

I don't know if she even likes that nickname. Didn't hear her complain. But the way it rolled off my tongue a shot ago, it didn't feel genuine. Like a backhoofed compliment I reserve for total broads.

I walk over to my closet. The shots starting to warm me up. I sift through the contents looking for a jacket to wear, I move a snazzy red one and see a family photo peeking at me. My folks don't know about my problems, and I rather keep it that way. I settle for just a green vest as I place the photo family side down on my bed.

I still send them each fancy post postcards and a check every Hearth's Warming Eve. My two sisters live there with Mom and I make sure they all live the life they deserve. Use to deliver it in person too.

Eyeing myself in the mirror, I adjust my bow tie. I attempt building up my confidence by giving my reflection mental compliments, something I picked up from a self-help book. Can't trust shrinks in this city. In showbiz, gossip is money. Sad stories about small-time, head-case celebrities like me make a lot of it.

"Look at you, you got a nice house a dream job, your family is off the streets. You look good , and well, you heard the girl, she will see you again! You have nothing to complain about!"

Sure, I'm good at it, but I still hate lying. Even to a scum bag like myself.

There's plenty to complain about. And now, one of those things happen to take the form of a nameless mare who shows me compassion and a taste of true love. Hell, she's already out the door.

Finishing up and dabbing a little cologne I put on a fake smile. I grab my lucky skimmer hat with the red trim off the rack on the way out. Couldn’t help but look over the walkway where I can barely hear that angel hum the melody to “Let’s make Memories", one of my first songs. As if hypnotized by her idle hum, I sing along under my breath.

"I’m no good with words less’ I sing em"
"Then sing em, that’s what I’ll do"
"If I could, I’d wrap these sweet memories in a box o’ chocolates"
"Just to bring em' back to you"

I want to ask if she was a long time fan, or anything to get her to stay a few seconds longer. Although it leaves me feeling a little selfish, I still have an urge to do it. But looking back on everything I thought about this morning, the way I question every pony who tries to make good by me, my drinking habits, why bother? She never gave me a name to call her.

“As good scuse’ as and I suppose. . . ” I mutter.

I wait for her to leave my flat and walk some distance before I lock up to do the same. If I was a dreamer, I’d believe she would be waiting to walk with me to the studio.

But my dreaming days are over.

I flick out the last light, ready to start that cycle of stressful work with, booze, snobs, and loveless solitude all over again.