//------------------------------// // Lesson 4 - Challenges of Marriage: Battle of the Arguments // Story: Discord Teaches Philosophy: On Love // by CrackedInkWell //------------------------------// Out of everything in this carnival, this one stuck out like a splinter in a hoof. It stood out because, on the outside, it looked like the kind school one would see in major cities like Canterlot or Manhattan. It was two stories tall, and it looked like it when through a war. Almost demolished by the missing walls, broken windows, holes in the roof, and arrows that were implied on it. Yet, at the same time, everywhere where there was once white brick, there was now splattered paint in every color, texture, and medium one could imagine. Around the building, there was a chain-link fence, where the only way in or out was through a booth that hangs full white painter suits and paint guns. Underneath a sign that said, “Battle of the Arguments,” was a copy bored-looking Discord in a striped shirt and straw hat. However, upon seeing Filthy and Spoiled, Big Mac and Sugar Belle, and Fleur de Lis and Fancy Pants, his features lit up. He gave a loud whistle to get their attention, waving at them. “Hey! You six! Come here! Yes, this way!” Fancy Pants raised an eyebrow, “What sort of horrid looking place is this?” “Come here and I’ll tell you!” Discord called out, waving to them. With morbid curiosity, the three couples walked up to the booth. Discord smiled, “My, you lot look like you’re in the mood for having a good argument.” Fleur looked shocked, “Excuse me?” “Yes, you too! I can see it in all of you that you want to tell something to your lovey-dovey next to you. Yet, it looks like none of you know how to bring up your complaints so that they’ll listen. Well, folks, you’re in luck! Because that’s what this attraction is for.” “Oh please,” Spoiled rolled her eyes. “My husband and I argue all the time, I think we know how to do it.” “Ah, but are you sure that he knows what you’re trying to say?” “Discord,” Big Mac interrupted. “Why are ya brin’ up arguments for?” “As I said, we don’t know how to really ague. But I think you want me to go into detail?” “That would be nice,” Sugar answered. “Well then,” Discord smirked. “Here’s the thing – arguments aren’t something new, obviously. Yet, different societies in different time periods have approached it in unique ways – especially among married couples. For example, the Ancient Pegasi thought it was common sense that love as you know it was reserved for the more… how do I say… admirable or perfect sides of your spouse. Sure, you may tolerate, pity, and feel compassionate with their imperfections – but you don’t exactly love them for it. Because the ancient Pegasi saw marriage as a form of teaching. A forum where one partner would calmly teach the other how to become the best self they could be. If anything, there wasn’t much rage or bitterness when one says to the other – ‘I’ve noticed you’ve been eating like a cow’ – but if there is an argument, that meant that lesson has gone wrong. “But I know that to your modern ears, this idea sounds plain weird. This is partly to blame from the Romantics that championed the idea that when you fall in love with your spouse, you should love everything about them – as they are – and there’s no need to give any feedback. In the short term, this is quite sweet, but in the long term, a catastrophe. The truth is, the longer you stay with anyone within earshot, the more you’ll notice their imperfections that won’t be seen as charming, or cute. Eventually, it’ll get on your nerves. But even when you do bring something up to them, they’ll just get offended. The very idea of getting feedback at all would compel your partner to say: ‘If you love me, you wouldn’t criticize me! Why can’t you love me as I am?’” “Buddy, you won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that.” Rich nodded. “At the same time,” Discord continued, “I can’t help but notice the same thing on a bigger scale. Arguments with whole countries, political parties, activists, communities, even our own families. Despite how both sides claiming that they knew what’s right, what the truth should be, and what should be done – something rather strange happens. Both sides debate, they argue, they shout, present their evidence, counter-arguments, and bring in experts – yet by the time they walk away – nothing has changed. Both sides are more convinced than ever before that they’re right, the other guy’s wrong, and that’s how it should be forever and ever – amen. Despite all the points they brought up, they wonder, how come the other insists that it is we who are insane? I mean, we’ve been taught in school that the one who makes the stronger argument should win, right? So why isn’t it happening here? “Well folks, the answer lies in a strange-sounding but very probable source – we don’t really know how to argue constructively. Oh sure, some of us know how to use it as a demolition tool, but when it comes to creating something out of it? Most of us don’t have a clue.” “Argue… constructively?” Fancy Pants blinked. “Pardon me, but I don’t think I quite grasp what you’re saying. Maybe it’s because Fleur and I don’t argue.” This got some strange looks from the other two couples. “What?” “You two don’t argue?” Filthy questioned. “At all?” “It’s not that we don’t have any objections,” Fleur explained, “but we don’t get into fights like other couples… To be honest, it’s partly the reason why we’re here.” “And all the more reason to undergo this,” Discord said, grabbing one of the white bodysuits off a peg and handing it up to them. “Have any of you played paint tag?” They shook their heads. “First you put this thing on, then three of you would enter here to give a head start before the rest follows in. Shoot your partner the right way, and the game’s over.” Smirking, he added, “at the same time, I did leave a few things that should help you play the game correctly.” Sugar Belle craned her neck over the counter of the booth. “But where’s the paint? I see the gun things, but where the paintballs?” Discord chuckled. “Don’t be so silly, all of you have them already. Just… use your words, and you have your ammo.” “So let me get this straight,” Spoiled inquired, “all we have to do is go inside that,” she pointed to the school, “dressed like that,” then pointed towards the suits, “where we just shoot each other?” Discord nodded. “What’s the catch?” “Well apart from this being mandatory, once you enter the shooting grounds, there’s a spell that prevents anyone from leaving until both of you get shot by some colorful words. However, there is a way to do it, so I’ve placed a few things here and there that should help you know what to do.” Big Mac glanced over at the paint-covered school. “Well… Ah guess it’s only paint.” “That’s the spirit!” Discord gave the suit over to him. “How about we give the males a head start?” Filthy sighed, his hoof extended for a suit of his own, “Let’s get this over with.” Discord gave out the suits that covered each pony from hoof to their necks in white. While the head was a plastic clear covering for them to see out. As well as a device at their necks that allowed them to talk and breathe. Once Discord distributed a paint gun to each of them, he waved a paw at the school. “You have about five minutes.” He told them. The stallions galloped over the paint-covered ground and through the school doors. Once they were out of sight, Discord snapped his talons, to which three poloid photographs appeared. He was showing them the backs of them which read in felt mark pen: Top Secret. “Oh! I almost forgot! You ladies need some ammo before going in. So here.” He let the photos float over to them. From the mare’s reactions, they ranged from shock to (in Spoiled’s case) rage. “I KNEW IT!” Spoiled threw the picture on the ground, and before she could charge head on to confront her husband, she instantly stopped as she felt something yanking at her tail. It was Discord. “Ah, ah, ah!” He waved a talon. “Give them five minutes, then you could shoot them.” The three stallions split up as soon as they entered the building. Almost every inch of the abandoned school was splattered, dribbled, streaked, lined, and slotted with every color of paint one could imagine. In every direction from the floor to the ceiling, there was no pattern anywhere in this abstract nightmare. Yet, as Filthy went down a hallway, he could have sworn that those other groups might have been here before. There were hoofprints on the floor. And the walls had outlines of ponies that got hit with something much bigger than a standard paintball. He was uncertain of what exactly to go or do. At first, there wasn’t anything noticeable that would give him a clue. Until his eye caught something as he was passing through a door. Walking in, he found the remains of a school library. Two stories big with an iron rail balcony and a spiral staircase in the corner, the library was in the same sad state as the rest of the school. Abandoned with rotten books and shelves that were covered in paint. However, what caught his attention was the movie projector and screen that was left untouched. ‘Could this thing be what he was talking about?’ Filthy wondered, approaching the mechanism. Walking around it, he spotted a bright yellow sticky note with an arrow and the words Play Me, written on it. The arrow pointed to a red button on the top of the projector. He concluded that it must be what Discord meant, so he pressed it. The projector came to life with a rapped clicking sound, music at first warped out from it, where both the film and the sound came up to speed. At first, there was some sappy violin music that showed a black-and-white image of a heart, along with the words in cursive: “Anatomy of an Argument.” It then cut to Discord, his back against the camera, jotting something on a chalkboard. He turns around as if noticing the camera that was turned on. “Why, hello there. I’m an underpaid actor,” the Discord on the film said. “If you are watching this film, it can only mean that you and a very special someone is about to have a hissy-fit royal. But before that could happen, let’s ask ourselves – how do these sorts of arguments happen? Has my love gone crazy? Why are they shouting and treating me like I’m worst that Discord McHandsome? “But as crazy as it sounds, these arguments don’t just pop right out of nowhere. Yes, even those unexpected ones have a source. Take this one.” “FILTHY!” The echoes of Spoiled’s shrilling voice shook Filthy with dread. He knew that tone, she was coming. “YOU CHEATING ROTTING WHORSE HANDLING BASTARD, COME ON OUT YOU COWARD!” Filthy’s first instinct was to hide. But where? Looking around, he spotted the balcony up above where there were short bookshelves that blocked one's view. Seeing this as the perfect hiding spot, he galloped up the spiral staircase and dove behind those shelves. “Now while you’re taking cover up there,” Discord from the movie projector continued, “you need to pay attention now. If you want any hope of getting out of here with your head still attached to the rest of your body, you would need to listen to what I have to say. “At first, arguments may seem chaotic, having no rhyme or reason attached as two or more individuals go at each other’s throats. But ask a headshrinker, and they will tell you that arguments go through five phases.” Filthy stayed silent, his ears perked up to listen carefully at the hoof steps outside of the room. “First, when it’s brought up. In most relationships, we don’t see the need to be the teacher or the student. Because of this, we don’t see what the other is trying to say as them teaching as legitimate. If it were in a classroom setting, this might be different. However, these so-called teaching moments come about at the worst of moments. Like when we had a long day at work, or that we had a bad day, stressed out, frustrated, angry, or scared. The reason why your spouse is bringing this up now is from the fear that if they don’t do it right this instant, then nothing will be put right.” With sounds of hoofsteps getting closer, Filthy double checked to make sure he couldn’t be spotted by his wife. “Second, at the heart of every argument, there’s the idea of: ‘Oh crap! I think my spouse is an idiot! Who doesn’t understand very basic, very important stuff that matters to me! And they’re not listening!’ I don’t care who you are, that is a terrifying thought. So much so, that when one gets into that state of mind, their suffering is placed dead center of the universe to the point where they don’t have the energy to see it from the other’s point of view.” Filthy stiffened as he heard the unmistakable sound of Spoiled entering into the Library. “Where are you!” the mare demanded, “I know you’re in here!” The Discord on the screen continued. “Not that misses will hear me this, but I suppose if my timing is right, Spoiled Rich is in the room.” “You… what?” curious, Filthy took a cautious peek from his hiding spot. His wife now had her attention to the screen. “As I was saying,” Discord said, adjusting a black and white tie. “The third phase is the confrontation. Those who confront their spouse honestly believe that the best way to get your significant other to magically change is to give them that correct info or a new way of doing things. That as long as you have a handle on the truth or what really needs to be done, then there’s no need for persuasion, right? Just force it down their throats, and they will fly right just like that.” Discord snapped his paw. “Sadly, I have some news for the wife that’s on the warpath. If you’re actually listening, you probably think that the best way to discipline your soon to be Exe – or the so-called ‘idiot’ – is to scream at the top of your lungs, belittle how stupid they are, call ‘em the worst names you could think of, crush him into paste underneath your massive ego, and get him to surrender to your will. Right?” “You’re not part of this!” Spoiled shouted, aimed her paint gun at the screen and when she pulled the trigger, she was flung back with blue and yellow paint hitting her. Causing her to fall back in shock. “WHAT THE HAY!?” “While you’re laying there in shock,” Discord on the screen continued. “You’re experiencing something that most tend to forget when they go for that approach. You might think that the best way to force your hubby to become a more honest pony is to yell at him until he changes, right? But the surprising truth is that doing so could actually do squat.” In anger, Spoiled flipped her paint gun again, and upon firing – she hit herself in orange paint, seemingly harder as she groaned on the floor. “You are currently experiencing something called – the Backfire Effect. Since you presented your argument in such a firry tone, the more you use that, the more likely your husband isn’t going to listen to what you have to say. But just like you, he’s not going to hear whatever you wanted to say, but he will know that he feels he’s being attacked. Which, fun fact, the experience of being told that you’re wrong, or doing it wrong, or you’ve messed up hurts so much, it triggers the same area of the brain as physical pain.” Spoiled got up. “C’mon! They’re only words! Words can’t hurt.” “Sorry to break this to you, but they can. As much as you want to convince yourself that you and your cheating husband are creatures of logic and reasons – sorry, you’re not. When it comes to hearing difficult info, emotion travels faster than logical thought. That’s why he’ll feel the pain of your words first before he could process what exactly you’re saying.” “Oh really?” Spoiled questioned sarcastically, “And what about those times he lied that he wasn’t having an affair with the sectary? All those times he said he didn’t?” “Simple, he’s afraid.” “Of what?” “Tell me, if an insane bloodthirsty pony came up to you to demand: ‘Where’s the ax? Where’s the ax?’ do you just tell the truth and tell ‘em where it is?” “Well… no.” “Why not?” “Because that pony would use the ax on me.” Discord nodded. “What Filthy is afraid of is that if he did really tell the truth, you might use that as a weapon against him to hack him into pieces. To him, just giving you the honest facts might as well be like committing suicide. “Which leads to the fifth stage. Since no one, in the history of Pony-kind, has ever learned by being made like an insignificant, idiotic, damnable fool that’s being bullied into annihilation. The moment when you, the teacher tries to get across your idiot of a student try to belittle them like this – guess what? You’re done! It’s over! Bye-bye! Put everything away! The lesson is over. You cannot expect for someone to change just by telling them that they’re too stupid to change.” Spoiled rolled her eyes, “Oh, and I guess you have a better way to deal with a heartless husband?” Refusing to be in hiding anymore, Filthy took aim at his wife’s head, “I’m not the one who’s heartless you bi-” was as far as he got with his muttering before pulling the trigger, and the paint gun fired in his face. Slamming him against a bookshelf. Spoiled turned around, spotting him, “There you are!” she took aim, and the paint gun fired back in her face, once again knocking her over. On the ground, she angrily wiped the paint off the plastic helmet. “What the actual HAY Discord! Why did you give us paint guns that don’t even work!” Discord on the film chuckled. “Well I did say that your words are ammo, right? And I did mention that this place has a spell preventing anyone from exiting unless they have the right sort of argument. I guess I might have forgotten to mention that if you use your words incorrectly, it will backfire on ya.” “So, let me get this straight,” Filthy said, trying to get up. “Ya put us in a situation where you want us to argue – but not argue?” “I said you need to learn the art of arguing constructively. If I allow the both of you to just yell at one another, call each other the worst things you could think of at the top of your lungs – why it’d be as useless as you getting out of a building without knowing how to use a key to get through the side door.” Spoiled got so fed up that she threw her paint gun to the ground. “Well, how are we supposed to do it! He cheated on me! He hurt me!” “And the thing is – you’re correct.” “Damn right I’m…” she blinked. “What did you say?” “In your hurt, you’re correct. But something tells me…” Discord started to walk through the screen, still in black-and-white, he stepped out from the film and into the library with them. “This isn’t the first time you felt hurt and your response is to explode, isn’t it?” “What? No-” “Yes.” Filthy folded his forelegs. “It’s practically one of the many reasons why I wanted a divorce. She yells and complains for hours over something so tinny. Last week, she ranted four a good forty-five minutes over the servants using a different kind of fabric softener. Fabric softener! And she treated it like it was the most important thing in the world!” “Yet, do you know why?” the black-and-white Discord inquired. “Hey Spoiled, do you always get angry on a daily basis?” “Of course not!” Spoiled scoffed. “I don’t do it often.” “But with someone having such high expectations, you must get surprised when things don’t go your way?” “Well… Where are you going with this?” “Filthy,” Discord turned to him, “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Your wife’s rage does have a source. It’s a reaction when one has bottled up their irritations for too long when their best hopes get repeatedly smashed to often that all it takes – is a spark. Look behind the blaming, the shouting, the belittling insults, the attempt to crush you into oblivion, and you’ll find someone who is deeply scarred.” “Excuse me?” Spoiled was taken aback. “Me? Afraid? Over what?” “Fear that your vulnerability would go ignored, or worse, be laughed at.” Discord smirked. “Sure, it could spark from something so tinny, but that alone could unleash days, weeks, perhaps centuries worth of buildup resentment. All it takes is a minor thing, a slight to your dignity that would cut so deep, unsettle you so much, that the only way out is roar out of humiliation. Yes, your barking insults are loud, but all that have their roots in fear. You’re afraid that the one that you placed so much trust in won’t ever hear the pain you’re going through. “At the same time,” Discord pointed over to Filthy. “You might believe that just belittling your husband is going to make him see the light – however, it’s the quickest way to stop listening to you. Why, to him, your ranting insults are clear signs that you must be insane – not hurt.” With his claw/paw behind his back, he slowly walked towards Filthy, “Frankly, your presentation of a murderous rampage just only proves it.” Spoiled was about to say something when he held up his tail, “But to be fair, you see the exact same thing with Filthy too.” “Now hang on!” Filthy objected, “Of course I listen to my wife when she’s angry.” “Do you?” Discord questioned, hopping on top of one of the creaking bookshelves. “Okay then, is she right in her accusations?” Filthy didn’t dare speak, instead, he looked away from both of them. “Yes, she may deliver the truth without any honeyed words. But at the same time, I do get why you want to deny it. Her anger of overplaying her cards from accusing you from doing a bad thing to being a bad pony gives all the excuse you need to stop listening. Is it? Just hearing it is all you need to roll your eyes, avoid any self-examination, and conclude that she’s both mean and crazy.” “But it’s… more than that.” This got Spoiled’s attention. “Indeed, there is.” Discord agreed, flying up to the railing. “Like her, you too are scared. You’re afraid that you won’t be listened to either. That you’re being forced to evolve and grow up before you’re ready to do so like getting an infant to hold on a nine to five job. Then again, it’s not the accusation itself, isn’t it? You should know your own flaws already, but you can’t bear to hear it in such an unsympathetic way. You want to deny, because you’re terrified of being crushed, proved that you’re worthless, and until you force yourself to make that painful change then that forgiveness you carve will be denied. You deny because you don’t need to give your self-hatred more fuel.” “Uh… wow…” Spoiled rubbed the back of her neck. “You know when you put it like that… Suddenly a lot of stuff makes sense.” Filthy sighed, “So… what do you expect us to do? You said the only way is to argue constructively. So how do we do that?” “Oh, there’s so much I could say,” Discord answered, “but to hit all the high points, there are a few things you need to hold onto: first, let go of thinking that you or your spouse is perfect. Look, I get in the early days Spoiled may once upon a time seemed like the mare that would make Celestia look like dirt, but she’s not. And neither would anyone else that you’ll come across. You both need to know that since neither of you is perfect, neither of you are blameless. You two are just as flawed as the other. “Second, choose the best moment to bring this up. Don’t wait until both of you are tired, or have too much to drink, or didn’t get enough sleep. The best way to confront someone when they will listen is when both of you are calm. If neither of you is, follow this rule – wait until tomorrow. “Third, tone is everything. Ask Pinkie Pie or her husband, and they will tell you that to a comedian, how you tell a joke is everything to get a laugh. So too with handling difficult info. Filthy, your employees at the complaint desk should know that to handle a customer, it’s got to be ninety-nine percent honey, and a tiny, tiny, tiny bit of criticism. ‘I love this, I like that, this is good, that’s brilliant, that’s fascinating, that’s wonderful, so about that…’ that’s how you do it. With tone, there are two ways of getting your message across so that the other will listen. Either with comedy – or with a decoration of hurt. With comedy, you can get your loved one to see things in what they’re doing that they can laugh at, but still draw attention towards without getting offended. But, if you want to get something that you feel hurt by, do something that sounds easy, but difficult to do in practice.” “Like what?” Spoiled asked. “In your case, ma’am, instead of going at your husband with sharpened, poison-tipped words of ‘You’re a monster for cheating on me,’ try something that wouldn’t make it easy for him to get out of. Use a different approach that wouldn’t get him to block his ears. Say along the lines of ‘I'm hurt that you did this to me.’ And with proper courage follow it up with: ‘And I feel scared that you hurt me for being vulnerable to you.’” Spoiled shook her head. “It would never work. If I did, Filthy would use it against me for being weak.” “No,” Filthy said, taking off his plastic helmet, leaving his whole head exposed. “I wouldn’t. As much as I don’t want to admit this – Discord’s right. If I learned anything in all of this is that the way we argue, we don’t get a prize for trying to win. Sure, you might get satisfaction, but is breaking up a marriage with it?” Spoiled huffed, “You do know this still doesn’t mean that I’m going to forgive you.” Picking this up, Discord hopped down from the bookshelf, walked over to the paint gun that Spoiled had thrown away to give it back to her. “I think you know what to say.” She aimed at her husband. “Filthy,” she said, dignified but stern, “I’m mad at you because… you hurt me. You promised you wouldn’t look at another mare after we got hitched and now…” She took a moment to not lose her composure, “You… I feel betrayed. A-And I’m scared you won’t learn a thing after all this.” She took a shot. And a blue paintball hit on Filthy’s withers. Smiling, the black-and-white Discord turned back to the flickering screen. “Filthy, I think you know what to say from here.” He said, climbing back into the film before the film officially ran out, showing only light on the screen. Filthy picked up his paint gun, aimed it at Spoiled. “You know what hurts me the most?” he asked. “I placed so much trust in you too. That may be, the mare I married would evolve from being at the center of the universe and instead become kinder, especially when Diamond was born. The thing is, I wanted to reconnect, I wanted to bring back those times when we dated. But you become so distant that I became lonely. I do feel hurt that I’ve been left ignored. It got to the point Spoiled where I felt that I couldn’t even talk to you. That’s why, among so many things that I want this divorce, I’m scared that you’ll never change either.” He took the shot. And several yellow paintballs hit her. Spoiled took off her plastic helmet. “I’m glad we at least agreed on something.” She said coldly. “Fancy!” Fleur called out. No answer. “Fancy, come out!” She listened carefully as she walked down the school’s decayed, paint-splattered hall. In her aura, she held her paint gun and the polaroid. The photograph showed Fancy’s hooves were in one hoof was a receipt that dated last year. The other was what he bought – a diamond ring. “Fancy, where are you?” Her ears perked up. There was a small metallic sound that came from behind her. Craning her neck over to a pair of double doors, she turned around and pushed herself in. By the looks of it, this room was the school’s cafeteria. Like the rest of the building, the room was coated in random Pollock-like paints that covered the broken black-and-white floor to the tall broken windows. However, there was a noticeable barricade of tables in the corner of the room. Fleur readied her paint gun. “So when were you going to purpose?” She asked suddenly. From behind the barricade, there was a surprised scream and a few crashes before Fancy peeked his head out. “How in blazes did you-” Fleur showed him the picture. “You had the ring on you for over a year and you never said anything!” Fleur bitterly questioned. “Were you just ‘Oh-so-busy’ that you can’t find the time to ask me?” “I-I wasn’t sure when was the right time.” “We’ve been dating for almost twelve years! What? You couldn’t find a spot in your schedule?” She asked sarcastically. “That you couldn’t figure out to place your proposal between the billionth charity auction and running Canterlot? That you couldn’t spend – what – a minute or two at most to ask if you wanted to marry me?” “What? You didn’t think I was tired?” Fancy replied. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to get in at the right moment when you’re either too tired, too stressed, too ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it,’ that I couldn’t sit you down? I know you’re still my bodyguard, but can you blame me when you come home from your ‘Exhausting day.’” He added sarcastically. Before either couple could add anything else, they were cut off when across from them, a small panel of metal divider suddenly rolled up. Revealing Discord in a lunch-mare outfit, complete with a mane-net, a splattered apron, and banging the side of a tall pot with a ladle. “Soup’s up! Come get your truth while it’s hot!” Fleur and Fancy blinked. “Discord,” Fleur inquired, “what are you doing?” “Remember a while back that you’ll run into clues in how to get out of here? Welp, here I am!” Taking a few bowls from his mane-net, Discord dipped his ladle into dish out a dark brown soup. “Come and get it!” Curious, the couple got off the barricade and went over to where the bowls were. “What is it?” Fancy inquired; his expression uncertain by the broth. “Truth soup, it’s your current relationship’s flavor.” Discord answered, putting a spoon in each bowl. Taking the plastic covering from her head, Fleur’s horn lit up to grab the spoon from one of the bowls. She sniffed the broth before carefully tasting it. Her eyes went wide before spitting it out. “Blach! It’s bitter!” “Just like your approach to arguments,” Discord folded his arms. “Cold, bitter, tasteless, and something that should be avoided at all cost.” Taking the bowls back to dump them into the pot, he added. “Still, like this soup, your approach to an argument has the same source.” “In what way?” Fancy inquired; his eyebrow raised. “Well… to stretch the allegory here,” Discord said, flipping a few switches to light a small flame underneath the pot. “Think of a good, constructive argument like preparing soup. If you want it to get it to taste right so that the other would eat it up, you have to perform a balancing act. Where it’s neither too hot that will scold, but not too cold where it becomes uneditable. And it’s not just temperature either, how you prepare your soup to taste like is incredibly important too.” He reached over for a bottle of honey, salt, pepper, and butter. “For instance, you ma’am said this soup was too bitter, do you know why?” “Uh…” Fleur’s eyes darted, trying to search for an answer. “I don’t know.” “Well what about bitterness,” Discord opened the lid of the honey to pour some of it into the soup; all the while stirring continuously with his tail, “towards Fancy, I mean. Do you know what bitterness means? It’s a big, grown-up word that means: ‘rage that’s been muffled by shame.’ That’s why it’s so cold and sarcastic. Because as much as you want to raise a complaint, paradoxically, deep down, there’s a sense that you don’t have the right to give a protest towards the one you love. Even if they have something legitimate to complain about.” He held out a paw to stop her from interrupting while putting the butter in the soup, just as it was starting to simmer. “I’m not talking about the silent treatment either, because it doesn’t relate to your case entirely. If either of you stepped back and take a closer look, you’d realized that both of you are doing this too. That you’re airing your complaints underneath a bedrock of compliance. Look beneath the wintery sarcasm, and you’d find someone who feels as if they’re being neglected emotionally in the hooves of someone they cared about.” Fancy was taken aback by this. “Neglectful? But I would never be…” He looked over at Fleur, her face had a hurt expression. “Have I without realizing it?” “Possible.” Discord shrugged while continued to stir with his tail. “Still, this approach to an argument isn’t helpful either. But to be fair, Fancy, while you hear this stuff from Fleur, it’s clear you know that she’s are upset. But this approach doesn’t do her complaint justice, nor tugged at your heartstrings with her dependence and vulnerability towards you. All it does is to think of her making the protest as a pain. Naturally, this too goes both ways. Luckily, there are a few ways to help warm those wintery words and get your soupy argument taste just right.” Stopping for a moment to taste the soup, Discord judged the amount of salt and pepper that should go in. “To borrow something I once taught, you ever noticed that around foals, very young ones especially, that grown-ups give generous interpretations to their behavior. Like, say at dinner when parents put a plate of broccoli down in front of their kid where it screams and tosses the plate across the room. What do you think the parent’s response is?” “Well…” Fleur thought for a moment, “you can’t hit the foal, nor yell back at it as it wouldn’t do much good.” Discord nodded, “Instead, they come up with a range of explanations like maybe the kid’s got a sore tooth, or that they didn’t get enough sleep last night, or perhaps is jealous of their little sister hogging every toy the kid has. Oddly, this is the opposite when it comes to grown-ups. We think that they’re doing these horrible things because they intended to do so. The Prench philosopher named Inmilo Gustachtie, aka, Ella, was said to be one of the greatest teachers in Prance; he came up with an idea to help calm himself and his students down when confronting irritating folks. ‘Never say that ponies are evil,’ he says, ‘you just need to look for the pin.’ What he meant was to look for the source of the hurt that drives even a good person to behave in terrible ways.” Taking a moment to taste the soup, Discord added a little more salt. “Another thing you both need to realize – is that as much as you want to get the other to become better, do keep in mind that most concede not when they’ve been told they’re wrong or did a bad thing, but when they feel loved. Most ponies get stubborn and withhold the truth not because we’re mean, but when we’re scared and suspect that the spouse challenging you, hates your guts, means to hurt and humiliate you, will never forgive, and who knows, is about to pack up and leave. It’s essential to bullace your criticism with the assurance that you still love them.” “But I do love Fancy,” Fleur objects. Discord raised an eyebrow, “Then how come a few minutes ago it sounded like you didn’t? Remember, like seasoning,” he tasted the soup again, this time added a little pepper, “the tone of your words can mean a whole world of difference between coming off as heartless and heartful. Even a few spoonsful of sugar can make all the difference between drinking hot water and tea. “Oh, and one more thing,” Discord added before dishing the bowls again, “as a friendly reminder for the both of you – as shocking as it sounds – your adults. Both of you do, in fact, have a right to complain, and do so civilly. I know you’re in pain but go for the extra effort and have an imagination before snowballing your partner with icy words. Alright?” They nodded. “Soup’s up.” Placing the bowls down with a spoon in each, Discord closed the metal divider, leaving both of them once again alone. Fancy took off his plastic helmet so he could taste the soup. “For cafeteria food,” he remarked, “this is exquisite.” “Uh… Fancy?” Fleur inquired. “Look… about what happened a moment ago… I was just upset and hurt back there and wasn’t thinking straight. So… can we start this again?” Fancy put his spoon down and nodded. Taking in a coming breath, Fleur began. “In hindsight, we’ve been both busy and barely had any time together from the past few years. You didn’t have time for me because – I can assume – that I didn’t have time for you either. Looking at it now, that was completely unfair for both of us. I was mad because knowing that you had the ring on you for over a year and you never brought it up is… disheartening. Especially when at any time I could have said yes.” Fancy’s eyes widened, “Fleur-” “Let me finish,” she interrupted, “I just realized that maybe… I wasn’t as perfect for you as I thought. I mean… considering we kinda had our first argument and… Look, if you decided to break up with me right now, I promise that I won’t hold it against you.” “Fleur is there’s anyone here that should apologize, it’s me. Frankly, you’re right. I suppose I have been neglectful in this relationship, so that doesn’t make me a suitable candidate for you either. I suppose that, if I had the ring with me right now and I… asked you – then I wouldn’t be hurt if you said no.” “Wait, where is that ring?” “I left it in Canterlot… sorry.” The metal divider rolled up again, “Ach! Enough of this sweet talk,” Discord said, starching his paw/claw over to the paint guns and handed back to them while putting their plastic covers over their heads, “just say what needs to be said, fire at each other and then you can get out of here.” With that, he slammed it shut again. Fancy sighed, “I guess it’s good as time than ever,” he sat down on his haunches, “I know I don’t have the ring with me right now. And I realized that I’m not that perfect stallion that you wanted me to be. I guess I still need to learn that I can bring up my objections without being bitter. If you’re willing to teach me, I’m willing to learn. So,” he aimed at Fleur’s withers, “if given the chance, would you marry a stallion like me?” And shot a pink paintball at her. She smiled and aimed. “I’m not so innocent either, so I guess I need to learn how to be a better pony too. And as to your question, no, I won’t marry anyone,” then she shot him, “just you.” It didn’t take long for Sugar Belle to find Big Mac. She found him on the second floor in one of the empty, paint-covered classrooms. When she found him, he didn’t try to fight nor protect himself from her confrontation. When Sugar found him, he didn’t even raise his paint gun even though hers was raised. It was obvious on Mac’s face that he was mortified by the picture in her hoof that his wife confronted with; however, despite his wife’s questioning, Mac didn’t say anything. “…. We promised each other that we would have no more secrets!” Sugar Belle said, her voice neither furious nor bitter, but crackled underneath the weight of her crushing heartbreak. Even when tears rolled from her eyes, she kept the accusations coming. “I can’t believe that you would hide this from me! That you never once said anything about this!” Although clearly shamed, Big Mac didn’t reply. “Mac, since the day we got married, we shared everything. I moved in with you, I told you about my family, my time in Our Town when Starlight run it, and even all the difficult days that I came to you for. I shared my darkest secrets with you, so how come you never once said anything about this?” “Because he doesn’t know how.” Discord’s voice was heard all over the classroom. “What?” Sugar Belle looked around. “Where are you?” “You can’t see me? Wait, hold on…” All around the broken classroom, the confusion of paint leaked and moved from floor to ceiling towards the chalkboard. A multi-colored blob was collected there, and it formed a claw that stretched out, then a long torso, a neck, Discord’s face including his mane and antlers, and his lion paw. “Would you hold on a sec? I need to stabilize for a moment…” He pulled and stretched, trying to break away from the paint blob from the wall until he broke free from it. “There we go,” the paint Discord said, “not my best entrance I’ve ever made, but certainly a memorable one.” “Discord, what are you doing?” Sugar Belle questioned. “Well, you remember that guy at the gate that said you’ll run into a clue. Welp, here I am! And by the looks of it, you might need my help.” “What are you talking about? I don’t need your help; I think I got a handle of this.” “Really? You sound like you’ve done this before.” “I’ve already had plenty of arguments with Big Mac in the past, I think I know how this goes.” Discord stroked his purple and orange goatee. “Tell you what, I’ll go away if you answer me this one question.” “And what’s that?” “Think about all the times you’ve ever had those arguments with your husband, including during the times you dated him. When’s the last time can you ever recall him talking back to you – ever – at all?” Sugar Belle rolled her eyes. “That’s easy, he…” She trailed off. Her mind went blank. “Well…” Big Mac took notice of her hesitation. As much as she went through her memories of every argument she could recall, she remembered that she did all the talking but Mac… “Uh…” Macintosh never said anything back. “I thought so,” Discord replied, his paint dripping arms folded behind his back. “As much as you love to use your hubby as a verbal punching bag, you ever noticed that Mac rarely gets truly angry enough to raise a complaint. And I’m not talking about your frustrated sighs or the annoyed looks either. In fact, when can you ever recall him ever raising a complaint to you since you’ve met him?” Sugar looked over to her husband for a moment. “He… never.” “What if I told you there’s a reason for that; and it’s much more common than you think,” Sugar asked what Discord meant. “Take your husband here. Sure, he may look like you average nice guy who doesn’t say much, but he’s showing a common behavior when it comes to arguments. Some call it the silent treatment, but that’s not accurate. This is known as Silent Cold Fury. It’s a state a mind where one is completely unable to get angry or raise a complaint in fear that it might ruin a relationship and their loved ones won’t ever understand. Even if his complaints he wants to raise are genuine. Despite how much you would like to blame, or shout at him, or toss a bitter remark his way, as a defense mechanism in his mind, he sees it safe to stay quiet and wait until your stormy emotions pass. “Now don’t get me wrong,” the dripping Discord said, patting Big Mac on the back, leaving an imprint of yellow and green on him. “It’s not like he never gets angry period, but he’s very good at keeping it out from public view. He may be quiet, but the truth is that he hates very deeply. Only, that said hatred has nowhere to go but back inside; that’s where a good dose of depression comes from. Why would he do that? Because his self-hatred comes from a belief that deep down, he doesn’t deserve to be listened to at all. You might say your husband’s a kung-fu master at the art of withdrawal.” “But…” Sugar Belle glanced over at her husband who turned away. “I don’t understand, why would he do this?” “Well, how about I paint a picture for you – three of them.” The paint-covered Discord walked over to a corner of the classroom in which he threw himself on. Dragging himself across a wall where he quickly painted a huge mural depicting three scenes. On the outset, the style was Impressionistic with its bright colors, quick but broad-brush strokes, and in each scene depicted Big Mac at various ages. When Discord pulled himself together from the other corner of the room, he stood proudly at what he created. “Do you like it? I call it: ‘How to Lose your Voice.’” Big Mac looked up at what Discord had created. On the left there was a picture of him, his sisters with an infant Appleboom and Granny Smith standing over two newly dug graves, their heads bowed low. In the center was him and Granny in the orchard, baskets of apples full and Granny turning her head and raising a hoof in anger, mouth open, and tears in her eye. The third on the right was him and his sister Applejack at the Hospital’s operating theater. Macintosh stomped a hoof. “How… dare you.” He said through his teeth. “How can you be this cruel?” Before the stallion could march out, Discord blocked his way. “Ah-ah-uh!” He waved his talon at him. “This might not be pleasant for you, but believe me as a copy of your friend, you need this as much as your wife does. If you want a tolerable life from now on to let her know where you’re coming from – this needs to be addressed or it will haunt you for the rest of your life.” “Mac,” Sugar lend a comforting hoof around his neck, “what is all this?” “Well, I’m glad you asked,” Discord said, strolling over to the first mural on the left. “Big Macintosh Apple’s silence has a source. Once upon a time, there was a chatterbox of a colt who thought and felt much about life on the farm and in general. His head was chock full of things he would gladly talk about from his day at school to suggestions on how to improve the workings of the farm. It didn’t matter what it was, he said what was on his mind from his thoughts of how the world moved, to his tricky emotions on a Sunday evening, even complaining of his monstrous task of chores he has to do on a daily basis. “But regardless of what was on his mind, Mac was glad that his parents at least listened to what he had to say. “Until, shortly after little Applebloom was born, his parents unexpectedly passed away. In one fell swoop, it unlocked a chain of events that turned Big Mac’s world upside down and backward. Now he was in the hooves of caregivers, his grandma and slightly younger sister Applejack that, through no fault of their own, became a little too touchy, too busy, domineering, or outright absent to give so much as a hearing to what Macintosh had to say. Which was understandable from the outset, the main providers of the farm had passed away, flinging them into an uncertain future where now they have to pick up the slack. Almost overnight,” he pointed to the picture, “our tragic hero was forced to be too good, too soon, and he began to have to resign his point of view without a flicker of self-defense.” Discord walked over to the next mural. “During such a difficult time, in the hooves of a family that had a constant fear that the farm could collapse at any day, there was a good amount of tension. The stress got the best of Granny and Applejack, having to juggle between taking care of a farm, each other, and an infant that hearing any suggestions on how to do their work was more than what they could cope with. As a colt around Granny, Mac learned how to swallow his agony of feeling ignored while seething inside, acted with a fragile courtesy but hidden aggression against her and Applejack that had done him wrong. For the colt, it would almost be seen as an insult to his family to raise an issue that he probably didn’t fully understand. Thus, the difficult moods, the tantrums, complaints, and rages that he would have as a foal, his Granny made it quite clear that those sorts of things should be edited out.” He then walked over to the next mural. “Not to say that he couldn’t take it all out on Applejack. For a while, he was able to argue, quite loudly, and using a lot of words. It was indeed unpleasant, but at least it was the only way he could fully talk about what was on his mind. Until, one day through an incident where Applejack went behind the family’s back, lied to their Granny, and almost got Mac’s hoof sawed-off, that a dangerous idea formed in Macintosh’s mind. Sure, he adopted the good quality of listening more, but in doing so, he accepted that maybe he got into such a situation because it is he, not Applejack or Granny, who are bad. Like so many unfortunate foals, Big Mac couldn’t imagine that the ones that were taking care of him could be selfish, mean, absent, or an undeserving mediocrity. Such an idea wasn’t possible! ‘Better ta think yer a monster that tries to be the obedient, selfless good colt that doesn’t complain at all, than ta accuse them of bein’ bad.’ Thus, ever since, the chatty Big Macintosh lost his voice.” He turned to Sugar Belle, “You might have thought your husband was the nicest stallion in the world. But the reason why he is what he is, it’s because he’s learned not to say everything – that’s why he seems so nice. And before you accuse him of being a big fat liar for not saying anything to you – he’s not. Mac is nice but being nice isn’t what you think it is. Early on, he had to make a choice between being honest and authentic to what’s on his mind, or be loved. He chose to be loved. This is because being nice isn’t an achievement of having no bad thoughts or wanting to do bad things – it’s an achievement of repression. All he’s learned is to keep all these tricker sides of himself quiet. He would rather inconvenience himself than to have the audacity to upset anyone – especially you.” “Those who have tha most ta complain about,” Big Mac said, very quietly, almost under his breath, “are those who don’t say a word.” Discord nodded, “The sad truth is Sugar, doing this to a colt before he’s an adult, it may give you short-term compliance, but those who grow up like that into adulthood… Well… Let’s just say you’ve married a ticking time bomb. If you’re really lucky, on your husband’s side, he would tend to be taken royally for a ride for decades without giving the slightest protest. This is fueled by a low-level humiliation and taken-for-granted-ness that couldn’t inconvenience others to make a fuss. All of this overemphasis of being the polite, empathetic, and gentle stallion just gives the perfect conditions of being walked, stomped, ran, and danced all over.” Through her clear plastic helmet, Sugar Belle’s ears folded back against her head. Her eyes had a guilty expression, almost on the verge of tears. “But… no one should live like that.” This got her husband’s attention. “Is there something that could be done?” The splattering Discord hummed in thought. “If both of you want my advice on how to get out of this, I suppose there’s… four things to keep in mind. For one, as paradoxical as this is going to sound – try to accept the idea that maybe your spouse will never change when you want them to.” “How does that help?” Sugar questioned. “The funny thing about evolution – it’s painfully slow. Sure, things could change, but they do so only on their own terms. Likewise, the same goes double for Big Mac here. So, don’t expect to start talking to you about every little thing now you know the heart of the problem. By lowering your expectations of either of you changing, it gives you the gift of having a relaxed, low tension attitude towards some tricky info about each other. This means that you’ll have to be very patient as you may have to repeat whatever complaint you have more than once. Don’t expect him to evolve overnight, or within a week, a month, a year, or even a decade – but wait on the other’s own terms. “Second, when you two do argue, give up on trying to be ‘in the right.’ No one gets a prize for burying the other’s seemingly invalid points. If you ask me, being alone with your argument while your spouse resents you is a lousy prize to fight over if you ask me. The goal of arguing constructively isn’t to win, but to figure out how to live as happily as possible with others who they’re trying to teach you how to become a better version of yourself. “Third, while the act of listening to your spouse is important, it’s just as much to acknowledge what their feeling back to them. Even their most awkward feelings should be given validation. The worst thing you could do is to push their moods away or deny they exist. A rule of hoof should be that no one becomes a bully simply because they’ve listened to too much. Give them, at minimum, fifty-five seconds worth of a hearing and verbally reflect their moods back to them. Play it back to them along the lines of… ‘I can understand completely that… I can hear you must… You must be feeling so…’ Trust me, stuff like that can change and save lives. “Oh, and one more thing,” he turned to Big Mac, the paint sinking to the floor to where Discord could talk to him at his eye-level. “This one will be hard, but if you really want to give yourself a voice again, then you will have to retrain yourself to learn the art of being a pain with constructive, but respectable anger. From now on, I’m giving you homework to learn how to protest in a firm but self-possessed way. So the next time someone – anyone – makes your life a little more difficult than it needs to be, nip it in the bud and say the following.” He thumbed over to the murals on the wall wherefrom left to right, the paintings of Big Mac began to say: “Ah’m sorry, but you’re cuttin’ up my chance of happiness.” “Beg yer pardon, but you’re ruinin’ what’s left of mah life.” “Excuse me, but this is enough!” Discord folded his arms and said to Big Mac, “On behalf of the author who suffers from the exact same thing you’re going through, breaking this habit is hard. But you’re not doing anyone a favor in shutting up and do what you’re told.” With that, that painted Discord melted to a puddle on the floor. Big Macintosh stood there, speechless. His wife quietly walked over to him, hugging her husband tightly. “I’m sorry.” She said, “But he’s right, you do have the right to complain as much as I have.” Breaking the hug, she looked at him in the eye. “Mac… I’m listening.” Although it took almost an hour, Big Mac and Sugar Belle were the last to exit the paint-covered school; both covered in red and pink paint by the time they rejoined their group.