A DAY AT THE BRONY CONVENTION

Ever feel like your life is just some weird TV show or comic for some sick fuck to get off on?

I feel that way now.

Scene: A certain MLP:FiM convention, 2014. Stephen Nicholas Dirth, recently ejected from the shackles of his grinding, unforgiving day job working the phones for customer tech support at the local DirecTV call center (he had steadfastly refused to upsell customers on AT&T's shitty new protection plans), stares up blankly into the dark eye of a security surveillance camera mounted to the sticky off-white enamel of the hotel convention center wall.

Someone is watching.

He draws the cowl of his navy blue hoodie nervously over his balding head.

I can't believe I came here.

I guess I thought I might be able to hook up with a cute girl or something, but of course there are hardly any women here.

Fuckin' bronies as far as the eye can see...

Shuffling down the bustling convention hall, nudging meekly through a vast sea of neckbeards (of which he, of course, is one) obsessing over sundry My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic trinkets, art, plushies, pillows, & posters, Stephen spies the crisp, gentle curves of a cute little Luna cosplayer standing silently on supple slippers, enchanted by her smartphone. Glistening with silvery glitter, the pert summits of her perky C cup breasts peek out boldly from the crest of her astral blueblack dress, cradling a pale crescentmoon brooch. A dark indigo veil hugs revealingly about her limber, comely hips. Stephen's pulse skips a beat.

There's one cute girl, at least...

Showing off, of course.

What am I gonna do, walk up & ask her to fuck??

A stocky, muscular man, considerably more handsome than Stephen, completes his conversation with a merch vendor and returns his attention to his waiting girlfriend, sliding a firm guiding arm about the exposed skin of the small of her back. Twirling her blue Luna hair in slender fingers, she beams with laughter.

Stephen frowns.

Ugh, she's got a boyfriend. Of course. Way hotter than me. Of course.

Makes sense.

Can't blame her.

He watches the couple stroll away, her boyfriend gently gripping the soft, rolling cushion of her booty, steering her step deftly within the thronging horde of scampering horsefuckers.

Nor him...

Aren't there any boyfriend-free girls here...?

...

Ick.

I wish my own thoughts didn't remind me of Chris-chan all the time...

Feh.

Maybe that doc I had to go see after I got busted for smoking weed at that stoplight who said I probably have Asperger's was right.

Probably...

He watches a gang of female friends push their way through the crowd, hand-in-hand. A homely, butterfaced Rarity with no tits & no ass leads the way; a fat, shabby, boobless Pinkie Pie cosplayer with sloppily-applied make-up picks her nose abaft; two unnoteworthy others, equally as unattractive, far too forgettable to even bother describing, follow.

Ew.

His eyes trace their path.

Now those uggos probably are in my league.

Yuck.

...

I'm probably just the boy-equivalent of that.

No muscles, no confidence...

No job...

I'm just some failed artist/musician twentysomething pseudointellectual NEET hikkikomori wannabe...

Living at home with Mom now... again...

Ugh.

My pathetic mind. Rates myself lowly, then denigrates my equals of the female sex.

Hypocrite.

...

But...

But...!

At heart, I know I'm Fucking Awesome! Right? In my Heart of Hearts, I'm a 10...!!

... aren't I?

Deep down, I deserve a Truly Beautiful Girl...!!

... don't I??

Pulling out his phone, he flips through a secret folder holding assorted pics & drawings of large-breasted girls captured on various harddrives over the years. Stroking himself discreetly through his hoodie pocket, his mind fumbles wordlessly, intimately over the erotic details of every greedily-stashed Instagram, Danbooru, DeviantArt, Tumblr, Reddit, Derpibooru, & Google Images body.

...

The sweaty pits of an obese brony squeezing past break him from his reverie.

Sigh...

He puts his phone away.

Useless.

No self-respecting female would ever want to date me...

He slumps against the wall.

This is hopeless. Why did I come here so fucking early? Most of the vendor tables aren't even open yet.

He slips down the wall into a heap of shame, head in hands.

Hell, why am I even here at all? What's the point?? I can't talk to girls. There's not even that many girls here. I don't even like the goddamn TV show any more... I really only liked Season One! I'm 28 fucking years old. I don't belong here. I'm going bald. I should be applying for jobs!

Sigh...

I need to grow up...

... or die...

...

Meh.

Maybe I really am secretly a girl or something.

God, being trans would suck!

I mean, nearly half of my friends – or more – ended up coming out as trans in their twenties... maybe I'm next...!! After all, I mean, I'm the one who picked those friends – I clearly felt something in common with them...

Not that there's anything wrong with being trans or anything...

Regardless, I'm certainly not very good at being a "man."

Like, at all.

Bleh.

"A finished example of the New Womanly Man."

Androgynous. Passive.

Weak.

Is that why I can't get laid? Am I unmarketable? Is that it??

Seeking comfort, he pulls out a copy of Joseph Campbell's Mythic Worlds, Modern Words from his backpack, a cocky half-smile adorning his face.

James Joyce.

Are my thoughts like Leopold Bloom's?

His thoughts I love.

Cuck.

King Mark. Three quarks for him. Finnegans Wake.

Hm...

Shem I am, perhaps. Green eggs and. "Low waster." Undesirable. Social waste. They'll be arresting me any day now for thoughtcrime, putting their puppet strings in me, hypnotising me into doing their bidding, forcing my mechanized body to serve the alienated ends of Das Kapital.

Non serviam!

Even my parents they have enslaved:

"Get a job."

Squidward. Stephen Dedalus. Jerry. Dolph. Mercius. Gripes. Gracehoper. Hoping for grace that means. Bloomlike thought that.

Heh.

I'm pretty cool, actually. I doubt anyone here knows nearly as much as I do about Ulysses or Finnegans Wake. If I were to honestly transcribe my thoughts right now and post 'em to FimFiction or something, they'd have to Google all the references just to keep up!

Heh heh.

Intelligent, creative, sensitive... people just don't recognize it yet. Nobody cares. A Great Thinker, a Great Artist, trodden on and underappreciated...

Maybe I'm even secretly the next James Joyce...!

...

Suddenly acutely aware of his own thoughts, his innards twinge in a dark flicker of abject humiliation.

Ugh.

What the fuck am I thinking??

Gawd, I'm such a fucking loser!

I'm never gonna get laid!!

Sigh...

... perhaps rightfully so...