//------------------------------//
// Journal Entry #2 
// Story: Johnny Powell's Personal Journal 
// by Nightmare_0mega 
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	--Day 23--

I still can't entirely believe I haven't woken up from this pastel colored hallucination that the rational part of my brain is begging me desperately to accept. Denial has always been my best friend in these sorts of situations, but as of now it only seems like the friend that only claims it for the day before sticking a "kick me" sign to your back to sick every living soul on you. My research has been proven rather unfruitful at the moment, as the only viable option of my return home is well out of my reach. Not only that, but the local population in town is more skiddish than I am when surrounded by thugs that can easily turn me inside out, so I'm less inclined to brave the open streets for their help. Not that it seems like they could.

So, yeah, I'm not exactly a happy camper. Sticking to the outskirts of the town, rummaging through trash, and committing breaking and entering crimes to pillage a library for any basic knowledge has been putting me in a foul mood. Mostly because I've been doing more on my own now than I have been when I was back home. Home, either being in a box under a bridge, or inside a mansion that got routine "visits" by insane occult enthusiasts that probably nearly caused the end of the world on more than one occasion. Maybe I'm just out of practice, since I used to be the go getter when it came to the strange and unusual, and only now I'm realizing how shit out of luck I am. Maybe it's because the element of survival in an unknown land has been maliciously tossed upon my things to do now, also making me realize I'm so jolly well fucked. I could really go for drink right now.

I'll be fair though, I did try to get help. Well, not intentionally. One night, I found a little cottage next to the woods that had these ever so precious bird houses, dens, and a little garden tucked away from sight. It was about a week since I've eaten anything decent, and that place was the only thing close by. I decided it would be best if I take a look around. Sneaking in the darkness like the least coordinated quadruped I was, I made my way around the back of the house, using the dim light of the windows as a guide. Turns out the owner keeps chickens. It's funny really, having a chicken coupe right next to a dark forest of death. You'd think there would be a problem of missing hens, or worse. But hey, who am I to judge!? Chickens mean eggs, and I haven't had a good scrambled egg in a while. I was willing to risk rummaging through feathers and bird shit just to get a few of those precious white orbs! The birds weren't too happy of my presence though, but I was a man on a mission... or is it stallion? 

My raid came to a screeching halt the moment I stepped out of the hen house to find that the moment I turned to leave, I was staring into the eyes of another pony. She (I assume, due to the high pitch) screamed in my face, which caused me to scream back at her (like the stallion I am), where she returned the gesture once again. I don't know what happened, but the next thing I knew, I woke up on a small couch with a blanket wrapped around my horsey body and the early morning sun peaking into the window behind me. It was a nice and cozy little moment, which probably would have lasted if my natural paranoia didn't kick in. For it was then that I realized I was in someone's house, and I had no idea how I got there. Waking up in a house with no recollection of getting there is a warrant for more than a few red flags so I did the most sensible thing I could think of. If I'm anything, I'm honest, and you'd be damned sure that I made for the nearest exit, and ran out of that place screaming like a little girl. But the worst part of it all? I forgot the EGGS!

Ever since that instance, I've noticed ponies being a little more attentive, and have been finding crude drawings of what looks like a pony version of me plastered throughout town like wanted posters. Maybe they just want to have tea and crumpets, and ask me a long list of questions, rather than do the obvious thing and lock me in a cell to rot until old age. I, however, have also kept myself focused, staying far into the shadows and making sure I only ever do any major moving around when it's pitch black out. But when you're a jittery, crazy, paranoid, schizophrenic, and jumpy person like me, you always tend to fuck up.

Here's hoping for the best. If I don't write past this journal entry, you'll know I've probably been caught and incarcerated. Or horribly maimed to death. If the latter, I curse the fate I tempted!