//------------------------------//
// "DaaAAaaAAaarliiIIiiIIiiIIiing!" 
// Story: "OOOoooOOOoooOOOooo!!!" 
// by shortskirtsandexplosions 
//------------------------------//

"Dear lord, help me..."  I cradle my head in my hands as I sit, hunched-over, before the computer. "Help me, lord, please."

There's a cooing sound behind me, accompanied by what sounds remotely like twinkling bells.  Or a xylophone.  Or something else high-pitched and prissy.

"Donations..."  I pull at my facial muscles, gazing up with bloodshot eyes at the screen full of numbers, brackets, and information fields before me.  "Does Patreon count as 'donations to a hobby?'"

"Ah!  Darling!  This one is absolutely glorious!"

Something billows behind me.  Something ethereal, flowy, and white as a sheet.  No, it's not a ghost.  It's a dress.  A very old dress.

Someone talks, but it's not the dress.  "So simple!  Yet so elegantly stitched~!"  A marshmallowy unicorn levitates through the gown, then settles into a delicate hover beside it.  Her horn glows with a light blue haze, making it seem slightly less translucent than the rest of her.  "I can easily tell that it's home-sewn!  A product of love and expert craftponyship, no doubt!  Ooops!"  She daintily covers her ghostly muzzle.  "A thousand pardons, dear.  Craftmanship."

"Maybe I could lump Patreon and Ko-Fi into non-relevant sideline gratuity," I mumble aloud, not really understanding what I'm even saying.  Nor caring to.  "So what if it backfires?"  I rub my face again.  "I'm not planning on running for office anytime soon.  At least not in this friggin' state."

"Oh!  But that bust!"  Rarity floats a stationary orbit around the levitating gown.  "It looks so awfully tight!  I must know how it looks in proper wear!"  She looks towards me, batting her eyelashes.  Ghostly mascara.  Wat.  "Would you be a dear?"

"Hmmm?"  I throw a tired look over my shoulder.

Her eyelashes are still batting.  Why do ghost horses even need to blink?  When they want to get something via charm, of course:  "Kindly try this on for me, darliiiing!  I must know how it looks on a biped!"

"Put that back where you found it."

"Pffft!  Puffft!"  She swings her head left and right, purple mane flailing.  "Don't be such a cheap sneeze!  You'd look fabulous in this!"

"Put that back where you found it, please."

"A resplendent dress like this?!?  Perish the thought!"  She attempts to snuggle the fabric, but her fuzzy cheeks only phase through the cuffs and seams.  "It is such a shimmering spectacle of artistry!  It absolutely must bask in the light of day!  Every day!"

"It's my late grandmother's and that's wrong and I want it back where you found it, please."

"Why... I am shock and appalled, dear!"  Rarity holds a shocked hoof over her non-beating heart.  She and the dress sway backwards in a numb stupor.  "Surely your beloved matriarch left behind a marvelous legacy!  Quite detestable of you to hide it all in some stuffy old closet!"

"Please, Rarity..."

"I saw lovely gingham in there!  Not to mention pure silk!  Even a poodle skirt!  Do you know how difficult it is to come by such felicitous fabrics back where I used to work?!"

"Please... I need to do my taxes..."  I grasp my head and collapse against the desk once again.  "I just need to do my taxes..."

"I hate to burst your bubble, dear, but only one thing in life comes to fruition."  She slides closer in mid-air, whispering past my ear lobe.  "The coffers can waaaaaaaaaaaait," she hisses like something out of Ju-on.

I shudder, exhaling vapers.  "There's a Hell somewhere on this planet, and it's run by the IRS."

"Well, it must be far... far from here!"  Rarity beams, floating back into the adjacent room.  "Thanks to your beloved grandmother, I have stumbled upon a heavenly paradise!"

"Uh huh.  Sure."  I slump back in the chair, breathing with relief that she's left the sepulcher of my room.  "Just don't trip over The Great Divorce."

"OOooOOooOooh!" she banshee-squee's from the guest room's closet.  "What luck!  Pantaloons!  Pantaloons for miles!"

"Guh!" I kick out of my chair and scamper into the guest room.  An exorcist on a mission.  "By C.S. Lewis' buttcheeks!" I curse.  "Get out of there!!!"