The Painfully Ironic Reality of Pinkie Pie

by Sir Alexander Wolfgang

First published March 18th, 2013 08:40

Pinkie Pie is an all around sad pony. Her entire life is a muffled scream, as to what it could be. She only wants to be recognized as who she feels she is. So now, after a long discussion with Twilight, she has sit down, and compiled this simple plea, telling of her problems, hoping for help.

Chapters

My Plea

My Plea
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The Painfully Ironic Reality of Pinkie Pie

My Plea

My Plea

Dear, reader.

This letter you are reading puts you in a position I can only hope you choose to honor. I can only hope that you do, but I'm not expecting you to. This is, for lack of better wording, and care, a plea for help. A plea for the hopes that you might pull me from the slums of my life and somehow help me. Somehow, just please, I don't know how you can, but please, just do. And even if you don't do this, I want to thank you for reading.

Another day. Another pathetic day. Another pathetic day I wish I didn't exist. Everyday, to me, felt like I was cast in front of an audience, expected to perform like the jester I knew they thought I was. I'm sorry, I must be rambling. I'm Pinkie Pie. Queen of the clown of Equestria. I'm seen that way at least. The ponies, my friends, all think of me as that. But no. I am not that.

When I came to Ponyville I wanted to be recognized, not as a pony to laugh at, but as a pony, ponies would confide in. A pony truly seen as a good friend. There were so many glum, that I felt it necessary to act silly. And now, that is how they see me. As the epitome of happiness. Ironically I'm not happy. I'm not happy with any of it. I want, so badly, to be taken seriously, but they won't. I've tried my absolute hardest to leave the impression I want, but no matter I try, my attempt is in vain, and the slightest, gleam, of a shining chance to be seen as more than a monument of hysterical laughter, and a ball of pink, infectious smiles. If only they knew. Now I am as they were. That was a trade, I wish I could correct.

Just today I was turned away from the opportunity to join a band, Octavia's band. "You're too spontaneous," they said. "You could never play to our specifications," those pompous fools. I've been playing the damned, violin, since I lived in that wasteland, of rocks. And the bastards think I can't play a simple song? Some days I don't even know why I glue this smile on, and just sit down, and shut up. The only person who even knows I have this problem is Twilight, my most bestest friend. She was the one who told me to put my thoughts on paper in the first place. And I can only imagine, that I will barely be able to see her much anymore, now that she's a princess. Oh, I'll miss my sweet Twilight so.

I would never admit this to anyone save for you, the only one who I can only hope will help, but I've had a crush on Twilight. It was always in the back of my mind, and I didn't even pay any attention to it until, 'The Running of the Leaves' festival. I'm not sure why I love her so. I just do. And, you are the only person who will know. If only I could muster my courage and tell her of my feelings. It's too late for that now though, and heart aches from my reluctance to tell her of my love for her.

I'm so sorry, but this letter would not incompass my troubles, if I were not to tell you of this, much darker, part of my life. This one trouble, even my dearest Twilight does not know about. Every night when I come home, I don't collapse from the constant partying I do. I sit in my room and I cry. I cry until it feels like my eyes are bleeding. Then, I withdraw my knife, the one no one knows about, and I cut myself. Every night, I cut deeper. I only started doing this a few weeks ago, but already, I can only feel the release of skin, as I am too prone to the pain my serrated blade brings me. Sometimes, I even fall asleep doing this. Why do I do it? It makes me feel as if I'm in control of something, in my wretched excuse for a ponies life.

Now, probably the most sad part about me. The discovery of my cutie mark, the tale I've told to everypony, is just a lie. At least the part about the my father.He never accepted emotion in our household. I don't even know why. But as soon as he found me, partying, he completely wrecked it. He destroyed everything, and burned all of the remnants after words. If that weren't bad enough he beat me that night right in front of my sisters, yelling something about my demeanor being wrong, saying happiness was wrong, and that I should be ashamed of my cutie mark. He made me wear wraps over my flank. That bastard, kept me from the glee I deserved for years. I didn't even so much as smile, for years to come. But back then, I still had happiness. I still had the hope my cutie mark gave me. Now my marks only purpose is to remind me of the old days, back when a smile seemed always close, despite never shown, and my joy was as if magical, despite muffled by my fear of my father.

I must bring this plea to a close now. Who ever finds it, attached to the balloon I've tied it to, please come find me. I know that's a lot to ask of a stranger, but please. I won't live long like this. I want to enjoy the blissful ignorance of life again, I want to, want to live again. I want to be able to throw that knife of mine in the fire, to not depend on it anymore, and feel like I am the party pony. Please. I'm sorry.

Sincerely- Pinkamina Pie