Dear Diary,
Fate, it appears, is mocking me. I fear I may be the universe's laughingstock. The Grand Galloping Gala has come and gone, and with it all hopes of my ever becoming a princess. Blueblood, and I refuse to acknowledge his title as he obviously doesn't deserve it, is singlehoofedly the worst pony I've ever met. Everything bad I said about Hoity Toity, magnified by a thousand. No, make that a million.
I was a mere accessory to him. Worse, he used me as a shield to block him from getting cake splattered on him. Instead it got all over me, and my pretty dress. And I do believe some is smudging your pages as I write this, Diary. I'm sorry, but I need to vent more than I need to bathe, though that is most definitely the next item on my agenda. Ugh, I swear I smell like Pinkie Pie! She dabs some frosting behind her ears instead of perfume. She's admitted such to me before. And now, well, let's just say I feel as if I bathed in frosting.
Blueblood cares nothing for me, and the feeling is mutual. Though I'm sure he's feeling something for me now: specifically disdain. I made sure to ruin his night after he ruined mine. I suppose, Diary, that it was quite petty of me to do so. Like I care. It was... shall we say 'satisfying'? Yes, Diary, I suppose that's indeed the correct word. It was satisfying.
Love,
Rarity