shitty octascratch might delete later idk

Every morning. Or afternoon. Or evening.

Whenever she wakes up.

Vinyl Scratch had a job to do.

Just these endless tasks that she has to repeat to keep herself together.

Keep up the endless party.

She could get drunk any time she wanted. She could play any music she wanted. As loud as she wanted.

She could get high any time she wanted. She could go to sleep any time she wanted. She could get fucked any time she wanted.

Isn’t that what I wanted?

“It’s really amazing Vi, that you can keep up like this!” Pinkie Pie had once complimented her. Vinyl had flashed her a shark-toothed grin from behind magenta shades.

She’d never once spoken to Pinkie Pie with anything more than body language. There were few who could claim the displeasure of hearing her voice. She preferred it that way.

Drink. Smoke. DJ. Fuck. Party.

That’s what she’d always wanted. To DJ the endless party.

It was a task. A boring and tedious chore. Anypony watching would be bored to tears by her mechanistic routine. Any movie of her life—even a porno, as she flopped industrially atop some cock or lifelessly ground her tongue into Octavia’s cunt—would be unwatchable.

Left on pause until a better film was found. Cassette ejected and thrown aside.

Magnetic tape torn out and degrading.

And yet there seemed one superfan of this bomb—Octavia Melody, always there to give comments and nitpick through the scenes. Always there to replay the tape, buy the sequel, follow the fandom.

Vinyl felt sick.

And day in and day out, she always thought to herself:

Now that I can do whatever I want, why would the party ever end?

Maybe one day she’d even find out what she wanted.