Love Life (or Pinkie Pie's Heartbreak Repair Service)

You wake up the next morning with a teeny, tiny hangover.

“Aaarrrggghhhgeezmyheaduuuggghhh..!”

Okay, you wake up with a pretty big hangover. After several attempts to curl back up into bed, you decide that the pain is too much to ignore, and the best way to cure it is re-hydration. Cue the zombie-pony-esque shuffle, complete with groans, to the bathroom to drink the tap water and use the facilities.

And also try to remember what the heck happened yesterday.

The first thing you recall is a pair of huge, blue eyes… belonging to that pink mare you met yesterday. You also recall a trampoline and…

Oh. Now you remember what you did. The fiasco at Town Hall. Idiot.

Are you really in such a state that ending it all’s the best way out? Your drunk self seems to think so, but then again, you’re not making any attempt to escape any other way.

Bumbling down to the kitchen, you open the fridge in the vain hope of finding something besides the usual eggs, cheese and surplus ingredients you never eat. In all improbability, you actually found something interesting.

Sitting there, on a small plate, on a shelf in your fridge is a generous slice of chocolate cake with a small slip of paper with your name scribbled on.

Odd. You don’t remember having cake in your fridge before.

Levitating the plate’s contents from the fridge to the table, you pick up and read the slip of paper. It looks like somepony scrawled this in crayon;

Hi!

I thought you needed cheering up, so I got you some cake.

Nothing cheers me up like cake, so I’m sure it’ll help a little!

Come to Sugarcube Corner when you feel up to it. We’ve gotta talk.

P. P.

Wow, you didn’t know her name was actually Pink Pony. Or at least something with the word pink in it, you’ll wager that much. You discard the paper, making a mental note to visit Sugarcube Corner at some point; you have nothing on your list of thing to do today (or this lifetime, really). In the meantime, you might as well have a slice of cake for breakfast. It beats ordering out like you do every other day…

Oh sweet Celestia that’s delicious.

*******

Standing outside the Sugarcube Corner, you realise just how much it looks like a gingerbread house. You guess you’ve never cared enough to notice before.

Either way, Pink Pony said she wanted to meet you there, so there’s no point in hanging around with the other ponies, who were busy sitting at various tables outside the confectioners. You just stroll into the shop and ask the petite yet plump pony behind the counter.

“Uh, hi. You haven’t seen a pink mare around, have you? I‘m supposed to meet her here.”

The stout salespony nods in acknowledgement, before trotting up to the foot of the nearby staircase.

“Pinkie Pie!” (You knew it! You knew she had the word pink in her name! You owe yourself a drink later.)

“Yeah?” a high-pitched voice calls back.

“Somepony’s here to see you. He says you asked to meet him here?”

The voice from the top of the stairs makes a sound of exclamation before replying, “Oh my gosh, he’s actually here!? Tell him to wait up, I won‘t be long!”

Within thirty seconds, the sound of - is that splashing? - comes from upstairs, before you hear what sounds like a dog shaking itself dry. Soon after, the recognisable pink mare who saved your life skips down the stairs, her mane and tail noticeably damp and limp.

“Sorry about the wait, I was having a shower after my shift here.” she chirps, “Let’s go for a trot around town, I’ll walk myself dry. We gotta chat about something.”

“Couldn’t you just use a towel?”

Pinkie the Damp giggles, “Don’t be silly, silly! Didn’t you know towels are the number one cause of dry fur?”

“But that’s exactly wh-”

Before you can finish your perfectly logical outlining, you’re interrupted by the store’s owner, who’s Pinkie-savvy enough to ignore her string of logic.

“Now, now, Pinkie dear, if you’re going to go for a walk, try to keep it down if you’re back late. The foals will be asleep soon.”

“Will do, Mrs Cake!” the pink one grins, before turning back to you, “Let’s go to the park, it’s perfect park weather!”

All you can do it shrug and follow her out of the shop. But not before buying another slice of cake - those things are good.

*******

This girl sure is a strange one. Who knew she could glean happiness from just rolling around on the warm grass? At least her mane dried out quickly in the sunlight.

“Yup, the grass is safe to lie on!” she confirms. Nopony had asked. Either way, you sit yourself down on the flower-dotted field, letting the sun’s rays wash over you.

Now would be a good time for a nice, cold drink.

“So,” you ask the sunbathing mare, “What did you bring me here for? Is it about the whole thing yesterday?”

At the mere mention of your near-death experience, she stops her grass-rolling on the spot, leaving herself lying face-up, staring into the sky.

“Well… yeah.” she says, watching an odd, wandering pegasus hop from cloud to cloud overhead, “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a pony, you know, try something like that. I mean, I’ve read about it in newspapers before, but-”

“Look, sorry if it made you panic back there,” you cut her off, before she makes too big of a deal of it (she seems like somepony who would), “I was drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight, and it was a stupid thing to even consider.”

“But you still considered it, didn’t you?” her eyes drift from the clouds to you, “Plus, I’ve hosted enough parties to know that the truth comes out when you’ve been drinking. What you were thinking back there… was it genuine?”

Yikes. She’s smarter than she lets on. But you don’t have the time nor patience for this, “I dunno, alright? You don’t know me, what do you care- Oof!”

Just as you get up to leave, Pinkie knocks you back down like a speedy, pink wrestler. Suddenly you find yourself looking up at her as she pins you down.

“I care,” she retorts with vigour, “because it’s my special talent to make everypony happy! You aren’t happy, and I wanna help! And yes, I do know you. I know most - if not all - of Ponyville. How else could I have written your name on the invitation?”

Invitation? Oh yeah, the paper next to that cake in your fridge.

“Are you really that obsessed with trying to make somepony happy?” you ask, “Do you have some kind of grand scheme into making Ponyville your own little happy town or something? Complete with a ‘No Sad Feelings’ sign?”

“Of course not! I mean, that’d be swell, but…” she catches herself before she starts nattering off-topic, and gets back to the subject at hand, “It’s not that I want to spend all my free time trying to help somepony. It’s that I don’t want to stand by and watch somepony fall apart when I could be helping them.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the somepony she’s talking about is you.

“I don’t think my conscience would let me just sit by and watch somepony… throw himself off a balcony when I could save them instead. That’s why I’ve gotta help, don’t you see? Lemme help! Pretty pleeeaaase?!”

You open your mouth, ready to tell her that there’s nothing she could possibly help with. That what happened yesterday was a one-time thing, and that it’d never happen again. But that would be a lie. Not just to her, but to yourself. Her help couldn’t possibly make your situation worse than it already is. So what have you got to lose?

“Alright,” you sigh, “I don’t know how you’re planning to help, but I need it no matter what shape it comes in. It’s a deal.”

She’s ecstatic by the news, bouncing up and down and all around like she’s made from the rubber of a bouncy ball, “Yes! You won’t regret this! I’ll do everything I can to get you back up on your hooves, I promise!”

“You… promise?”

She finalises the agreement by reciting a miniature ritual that involved crossing her forelegs over her heart, waving said forelegs around for a second or two and poking herself in the eye.

You have no idea what it meant. You also have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.