//------------------------------//
// Living Arrangements 
// Story: Friendship is a WIP 
// by MonolithiuM 
//------------------------------//

	"This is such bullshit, oh my god." Anon glared down at the table in front of him as Twilight gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. The faceless man's attitude soured every time her hoof returned to his body, and he twitched ever so slightly with every contact she made. "I'm not writing these stupid buddy lesson letters to your stupid ruler with the fag-flag hair. It's unnatural for men to do this and I reject it with my very being."

Twilight shrugged and began to trot away. "Write one of these letters every week or leave. It's up to you, Anon."

Anon sat at the table, staring at the quill, parchment, and full bottle of black ink with barely-contained frustration. He didn't want to pay Twilight to stay in her library, that would entail getting a job and working under these moot-forsaken ponies. Anon's fists trembled with shame and rage at his current predicament. He could either get a boss that would be a pony, or write letters to the ruler of their country every week detailing his interactions– however limited they may be– with the ponies of Ponyville. 

His hand shaking, Anon grabbed the quill and plunged it into the ink. "Dear... Princess... Celestia..." His voice came through clenched teeth, invisible behind the cloth that covered his face twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. His scribbling ended after writing those three words. Anon then realized that he would actually need to do things in order to write to the fat white shitlord that smiled down upon her cotton-candy country and its autistic, prismatic residents. And he would need to spend time with these autists.

"Jesus, now I know what the Pope feels like," Anon grumbled. He stood up and made his way to the kitchen, looking for something to eat. With enough brainfood, Anon supposed he could spin a tall tale and send it off without a hitch, not like that chubby bitch would know anyway. Nor would she care about him, either. He opened the cabinet above the counter and reached inside for his jar of peanut butter. Getting it within his grasp, Anon proceeded to open it and stick a knife inside to retrieve the creamy substance.

Hearing a glassy, hollow clink, Anon's hand flexed around the jar and shattered it. He turned around and saw Spike at the table, a peanut-butter sandwich between his claws. The man wanted to punch Spike in the face so hard that the dragon would fossilize, but Twilight had a very strict no-violence rule around the library, and especially with that scaled thieving fuckhole.

With no other outlet to turn to, Anon stomped back into the foyer and slammed his hands onto the table, grabbing up the quill and beginning to furiously scribble his letter to Princess Celestia. Heavy breaths came from the lithe man as he ignored the shards of glass in his hand, instead channeling the pain into furious, hungry rage that was then transliterated into written word. 

Signing off on the letter, Anon then re-entered the kitchen and shoved the scroll of paper into Spike's peanut buttery throat before pulling the dragon's tail and watching flames erupt from his nose. Spike then entered a coughing fit and Anon watched as the scroll left Spike's mouth and wafted out the open kitchen window.



Princess Celestia sat within her study, content with the way the day was going. Looking up from a novel she was currently invested in, she saw a cloud of green smoke enter into her room from the balcony door and coalesce in front of her. Twilight had told Celestia of her plan to get Anon writing some friendship letters, and Celestia agreed, seeing the value it would hold for Anon. Even if the cynical human couldn't see its usefulness, it would do him a lot of good. 

The scroll materialized and dropped onto Celestia's pillow, and the first thing she became distinctly aware of was the overpowering smell of peanut butter. Levitating the scroll in her magic, she unfurled it and blanched immediately. Soaked in blood and covered in splotches of peanut butter, Anon's first letter was a bit of a shock. It was also horribly unhygienic and concerning for Celestia as to what exactly Anon had done to the poor dragon. The best way to find out, she supposed, was through the letter she now had in her possession.



Dear Princess Celestia,

I wake up this morning, stretching my arms and legs, smacking my lips and smelling the fresh morning air. I had a good night of rest and my day was going well until about eleven fifty-seven in the morning. Twilight told me that I would have to write these stupid fucking things each week if I wanted to stay under her roof. And, like a complete jew, I detested the idea of spending money to live, and so I guess the existence of this means that I agreed. Fuck me, right? So I'm thinking of what to write to you for the first time. I was going to bullshit the entire thing like a high school paper, but I needed to eat so I could think straight. I walk into the kitchen to get my jar of peanut butter. Notice how I underlined "my". 
To my horrified discovery, someone has finished my peanut butter and had the gall to leave the empty fucking jar behind like it was a fucking condom wrapper. I turn around, and– lo and behold– there is Spike, with a peanut butter motherfucking sandwich in his claws. He went into the cabinet where I keep all of my food stuff, he opened my jar, took the last of my peanut butter, and PUT THE FUCKING THING BACK. 
THIS CUM-GUZZLING, SCALY, SHIT-FOR-BRAINS USELESS SIDEKICK STOLE MY FUCKING PEANUT BUTTER AND THEN PUT THE JAR BACK. THIS DEFIES ALL CODE OF COMMON ETIQUETTE WHEN PERUSING CABINETRY, AND I AM APPALLED BY THIS FAG'S IGNORANCE AND RETARDATION. I DON'T KNOW IF YOU CAN GIVE A DRAGON DOWN'S SYNDROME WITH MAGIC, BUT TWILIGHT MUST'VE FOUND A WAY BECAUSE THIS STUNTED FUCKBOY IS WAY OUTTA LINE. 
I MEAN YOU SHOULD SEE HIM JUST STRUGGLE TO LIVE. WHEN HE RUNS, HIS ENTIRE BODY STAYS STOCK STILL WHILE HIS LEGS START SWINGING. HOW OLD SHOULD HE BE BY NOW? BECAUSE THERE'S NO DOUBT THAT HE WOULD BE IN SCHOOL IF IT WASN'T FOR HIS RAGING CASE OF SUDDEN INFANT FUCKHEAD SYNDROME. I SWEAR IT'S LIKE HE ISN'T EVEN A PERSON, LIKE HE'S SO SLOW THAT WE ALL LIVE IN THE PRESENT AND HIS MIND ACTUALLY WORKS BACKWARDS, AND UPSIDE DOWN. HE HAD A TWENTY MINUTE ARGUMENT WITH AN OWL WHEN IT ASKED HIM "WHO?" LIKE HOLY COCK HOW STUPID ARE YOU? BUT THEN I REALIZED HE WAS A DOWN'S AUTIST WITH ADVANCED CEREBRAL PALSY AND AN ORPHAN THAT GOT ADOPTED BY A SCHIZOPHRENIC NEAT FREAK AND I ALMOST FELT BAD BEFORE I PUNTED HIM INTO A LAKE.
I HOPE THE FUCK DROWNS.
~Anonymous



Celestia lowered the letter slowly, her face serene. Slowly, and ever so slightly, Celestia's face contorted into a smile. This was some of the most entertaining shit she had read from a sentient being in a while. She would be looking forward to more from Anon. With that, she set the letter aside on her table and designated that the new position for the pile of letters she would most likely be receiving from Anon in the coming weeks.