Rarity hates stiching dresses. Hates, hates, hates it. I cannot stress this enough - Rarity ***HATES*** stitching them. She hates the whole process. She hates looking at dresses - their Long, Flowing fucking Parts, and stupid Bullshit Colours are just enraging Bull-Shit to her, because she hates it so much. Her distaste for dresses goes so far as to encroach onto other pertinent areas of her self-confessedly “pathetic” lifestyle - She cries when she gets home, she’s unhappy with her life and job. She spends every second of her life in abject agony, because she hates what she does.
I asked her to get another job - HERES what happened, here are the facts. This is how it went down, and here’s the mistakes I made. And, the mistakes SHE made. For you to reflect on, and avoid.
When a social subject becomes a point of constant contention, the people committed to it end up having to commit themselves fully, because of a fear of Alienating those who disagree. The actual affect, and the sudden and complete polarization of this subject only serves to turn it into a further Point-of-contention - in this instance, this happened with a Cube, that I showed to Rarity on December 23. Rarity, being the complete fucka she is, hated it. I had genuinely spent at least 3 or 4 hours a day, 7 days a week (YES, including the days I worked in the fucking Mines) for approximately or appropriately 873 days - which, is, to be more-or-less more exact, is 124 weeks - which is, to be even more-or-less more or less exact is 2.3 years - searching and Rummaging for this fucking Cuboid, and it pissed me right off that she would stare it with complete apathy. Those two years, I had eaten nothing but pure dirt off the ground because I had spent all my money every week on my Search.. (Sighs) anyways. (clears throat, adjusts tie).
Now, you might be so foolish as to assume that Rarity’s lack of appropriate response would be due to some kind of inability, or unwillingness (due to lack of caring, or perhaps lack of ABILITY to care due to the innumerously and unaboundedly large amount of stress weighing on her back) - but no, she simply chose to not portray her emotions to me at this time due to the way I had treated her when she showed emotion to me earlier in our experiences and lives together (more on this later) - after 6 years working for the Agency, I would expect her to believe in the sense that this was important, she would know that I was completely involved in the supernatural, the sublime and spiritual, and that I had found an ancient object that would let us reach what she had been wanting to reach - an escape, not unlike that of death, but much unlike that of suicide, or social suicide, or, not unlike the act of moving to another country and changing your name and identity for kicks, and for a second chance at living the life you never had the opportunity to live, OR, the ability to hurt yourself in front of others due to differing cultural importances or values - For example, Rarity could change her name to Drunt and move to Russia to find herself in the company of people who wouldn’t mind her being more open about her true disposition. Of course, she never WOULD do this, because she wouldn’t be caught dead in Russia, or Russian fashion. She would stick out like a sore thumb, because she is a cartoon horse, partially, but of course also because her only affiliation and knowledge of Russian culture and life is from obscure movies, CDs that she can’t understand the lyrics to, and of course, imperialist propoganda, of which she had been fed unknowingly and unwillingly for years as an Equestrian citizen.
“Do you love yourself, Rarity?”
“Some parts,” She quips. “But I find myself unable to remove myself from those parts. So, I suppose, I do love myself. Without my love, I’d fall apart.”
Rarity is weak, Rarity is a loser. Rarity is a cheater and a scoundrel, Rarity would take any opportunity she could to destroy me. I do not trust her, at all, and she trusts me enough to be around me, but no further than that. I am around her because I know she does not possess the power to destroy me as she wishes; she lacks any sort of power that doesn’t involve the art of being a pathetic loser. She lacks everything, in a way; there is no spice to her, there is no essense or soul to her as a person. Yet I love her, with my raw being and soul, and she loves me too. It is here, in the middle, that I will meet her. We hate each other, but we love each other. And I respect her a thousand times more than I could respect anyone else who would only Love me, and I would respect no one who hated me as much as her, lest they could possess this couragous mix of pure stupidity and choir-boy-esque innocence and lost-world swagger. Her years as an Agent of the Government have only aided her in the development of her sharp wit, and her signature style of comedy. Her favourite jokes are wordplay and puns, she horses around (hah - get it) and she has sex with me, from time to time, because I love to have sex. I am a hedonistic mastermind. I love to have sex, and I love to do drugs. Me and Rarity do every drug under the sun together, and she hates it, but I hate it more than her, even though I love it, and she loves it too because we do it every night. We smoke weed and pot, in the bathroom. When we lived in China, we would water the plants naked and smoke weed, and then drink black coffee, and then snort coke in the living room while listening to Bach. Sometimes, she wanted to play Mozart, that stupid bitch.
I am a genius of pure charisma, to put it lightly, because I was the one lucky enough to meet her in that dimly-lit bar like a stroke of pure luck. I walked up to her, with no confidence. I stuttered when I spoke to her.
“H-hi”. That’s what I said, but I did it on purpose, because I wanted her to think she could lower her guard around me. She knew that was what I wanted her to think, and that hurt her greatly. She instantly responded.
“You have no reason to pretend to be weaker than you actually are, we both know who we both are. We are both in the presence of an equal power. We could both kill the other, but at the cost of our own lives, and I think that says enough about each other to say that, maybe, you could uhh… Drop the bullshit?”
She was so stupidly and ridiculously annoying that I basically started punching my head on the spot (I have a mental problem, though, I refuse to tell you the SPECIFICS - because it would be highly unwise of me to let you know about my one true weakness). She instantly responded.
“Why are you punching your head? What, are you fucking retarded or something?” I instantly fell out of love with her, in that exact moment, because I hated that tone of voice she used with me. Then she placed her hoof on her cigarette; letting it burn her. She looked me in the eyes.
“I hurt myself because it’s what I have to do to make myself good enough again, and it’s what I have to do to be holy enough again.” I instantly fell even more out of love with her, because I hate people who have to justify their own existence through their own means of reality, and self harm is disgusting weakness. She proceeded to pull out her iPhone and show me wojak memes. I fell instantly in love with her.
The rest is, almost history. At least, it WOULD be, if I had bothered to write any of it down. The fortunate part is, I kept a massive collection of cassettes and recordings cataloguing my experiences with her and my experiences with myself. I found, using these cassettes, that the exact date I stopped hating myself was the 4th of August. The year? Well, you’re going to have to sit still and get some popcorn, enjoy the ride because.. This is going to get crazy. Crack. That’s the sound of my back cracking. I stretch it, and Rarity watches and listens, because we’re in the home office together. Rarity is struggling with something; opening a lid of Coke, NOT pepsi, because she hates Pepsi, and loves Coke, she is struggling with this. But I open it for her, not because I want to help her, but because I love the idea of her drinking Coke. It excites me, but not sexually. More so emotionally, and pragmatically.
I meet Rainbow Dash under the highway that her husband drives over for work every day because she cannot afford to work again after the Relocation, or the lost job, or the scars and burning, or the terrible traumatic things that happened to her. She is nothing to me, but I enjoy talking to her, because she says interesting things. The other week, we were discussing house music; her take on it was, juvenile at best, but my opinion of it felt more refined and amazing. I actually owned her really hard in that discussion, and showed my knowledge reached far beyond what she could ever imagine. She basically proved herself to be worse, and less worthy, than me. Today, we are talking about black coffee. She admits that she’s never drank it, because she hates it, and I admit that I drink it because I hate it. She asks why, and I tell her that I was in prison for 3 years. She doesn’t believe me. Fluttershy overhears us. She also drives along this great highway - I believe it’s for relaxing reasons, because she likes putting CDs in her car stereo and driving in busy places to calm her nerves, or at least, thats what her ex boyfriend told me when we worked together at that salutation plant, and in a few passing mentions from her father when I used to call him to inquire about the true meaning behind his books. His full collection and compendium of novels, released, created and written completely by him, are in my possession, on a shelf, in the book-reading room of my house. I often enjoy perusing and re-reading these books many times over because I find the concepts they posit and explore completely fascinating. “The Story of Meat” is about a man who refuses to stop eating meat, but then one day he realises that he’s made of meat, and refuses to take part in the destruction or consumption of something that is a part of him. This felt insanely profound and personal to me, not because I was made from meat (I no longer am) but because his writing style was so slow and deliberate that it basically made me want to go punch something. I was desperate for any trace of dopamine or any trace of anything that could make me happy. The pursuit of knowledge is painful, I know this, but I no longer hate it. I love this pain. I love myself.
Fluttershy plants herself next to me, and I am instantly reminded of our outings together when we were trying to figure each other out. The one thing I hate more than exploration of the senses is exploration of another’s senses. It’s less narcissistic, of course, but completely unfounded in any kind of solid grounding I can firmly plant myself in.
