Funny how your life can change in an instant. Or a day. I know mine did. The moment I quit, I felt a great weight lifted off of my shoulders. I have a few more books due on contract, and then, it will be over.
I have already noticed some improvement in my life, dear typewriter.
Morose is working on enrolling Melancholy into a fancy school for the gifted, and Melancholy is certainly gifted. Maybe now, when I have more free time, I can help her out with her art, or get her to try writing, or just be a better friend and spend more time with her. She deserves that.
My mood swings have been worse lately. Might be the drinking, might be the stress, I don’t know what it is, but it bothers me. I’ve never been a stable mare, (teehee, I made a pun!) but this is becoming unbearable even from my own perspective.
Funny, I quit my current writing gig and already I am getting story ideas. Like an idea about a donkey single mother that has a washed up friend that is a writer… oh wait. Never mind. That is a terrible idea. Nopony would ever read that drivel. It doesn’t meet the marketing data.
Haha, but I do feel better.
Purple Prosie hated the doctor’s office. The canned music, the smell of disinfectant, and the waiting, the waiting was the worst. Waiting in the waiting room and then waiting some more back in the examination room, and then, if you were lucky, waiting again for a while longer on results.
Like now.
Purple Prosie had waited almost a full hour after peeing into a cup, trying to find out why it burned when she peed. She had already read the magazines in the room, boring housemare stuff really.
She sat, humming to herself, kicking her hind legs as she sat in the chair, waiting not so patiently, thinking about getting up and walking out. This was ridiculous.
Just as she started to slide out of her chair, the door opened and the doctor walked in. She was smiling a polite smile, and carrying a clipboard under her wing.
“Miss Prosie,” the doctor said, her tone filled with medical professional sincerity, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I have some interesting results for you.”
“About damn time,” Purple Prosie muttered, her words doing nothing at all to the doctor’s medical professional grade standard issue smile.
“The bad is news is, you have a mild bladder infection,” the doctor announced, still smiling a now infuriating smile.
“The bad news?” asked Purple Prosie, now looking confused.
“Yes, and there is good news! The good news is, you will be having a foal soon! I bet you’re excited!”
There was a thud as Purple Prosie fainted.
“Miss Prosie?”
Purple Prosie’s mind slowly came back into focus. She thought about everything that had been going on lately. Her constant nausea, mood swings, the never ending growth of her plot, oh pony was her plot getting big, and her mood swings… there might have been something about mood swings in her thinking. Her hips were now wide enough to fill the tub, one side to the other.
“Miss Prosie, speak to me if you can,” the doctor repeated.
“I can’t be pregnant, I haven’t had sex in three months, and I am on the pill,” responded Purple Prosie.
“That’s funny, because you are about four months pregnant I’d say,” the doctor replied cheerfully. “And the pill doesn’t always work.”
A groan escaped Purple Prosie’s lips as she lay on the examination table, staring up at the textured ceiling. A foal. Well, that certainly made things interesting to say the least.
“Wait, doc, I drink a fair bit, is everything going to be alright?” she asked, real panic creeping into her voice now.
“If you stop now, things should be okay,” mused the doctor, pressing her lips together after she spoke, her face concerned.
“Ugh,” groaned the purple pony on the examination table whose entire life had just ended, and who had just been given a death sentence in the form of being responsible for another life other than her own, which is the worst thing you could ever do to a helpless self focused self serving narcissistic drama queen with a flair for the dramatic and a need to be doted on to keep the fires of her ego fanned, lest she crumble like a cookie left too long in milk. “There goes my love affair with my filly bits,” she added, the sting of her filly bit’s betrayal overwhelming her already overwrought senses, causing her to spiral downward.
“Are you going to be alright?” asked the doctor, her standard issue medical grade look of worry mask now covering her face.
“Not if I can help it, I have other plans,” pled the plump and ponderous purple pony with the plentiful plot, prone upon the platform of probing and prodding, perusing her percentages and possibilities, perplexed and plotting proposals posted to her privates and the parasite planted there.
“You’ll be fine,” the doctor said cheerfully, using her standard issue medical grade comfort the patient voice.
“Prosie, you’re scaring me,” Morose said, gently nudging the staring mare.
There was no response, which really worried Morose. Morose expected dramatics. Shouting. Cursing. Anger. Something. Anything. This was the worst sort of reaction, because there was no reaction.
Her best friend was broken, something inside of her brain had going “sproing” and the springs and gears had come loose.
“Oh minotaur shit,” Purple Prosie mumbled.
“Good Prosie, that’s better, keep going, say something colourful,” Morose begged, patting her friend gently.
“What is minotaur shit?” asked Melancholy, causing her mother to blanch.
“Well, that is something that can never be undone,” Morose lamented, summoning a supreme act of will to keep from laughing.
“In a few months a parasitic alien infestation is going to come exploding out of my filly bits, covered in blood, squealing and shrieking, my filly bits are going to burst and rip and tear, and just the very idea of all of this is causing me to speak in broken sentences and fractured jumbled fragments of spoken reason, this parasitic growth is going to launch from my nethers in a hail of blood and flatulence, forever destroying any chance I had at being a career alcoholic,” announced Purple Prosie.
“That’s better dear, that’s what I’ve been waiting on, let it out,” asked Morose, heaving a sigh of relief. “That is the pony I know,” she added.
“Sounds scary, can I watch?” Melancholy asked.
“Sure kid, why not, it’ll be educational right? Want to watch Purple Prosie’s filly bits explode as the parasitic alien growth escapes its fleshy prison and then sets out to wreak havoc upon the world?” asked Purple Prosie.
“Sounds exciting!” Melancholy replied.
“Oh for the love of fluffernutter sandwiches,” groused Morose. “Even I wasn’t this melodramatic when I had Melancholy.”