The Badly Written Life of Purple Prosie

by kudzuhaiku

Chapter 1

I don’t understand what happened with my life. I started off well, I graduated with a degree in magical creativity, and I became a successful writer under the name of Sultry Satin. The Princess Cadance claims to be my biggest fan. I think the problem started when I started looking for love. Now, my life is all messed up. I can’t write like I used to. I take on editing work to pay the bills and write meaningless romance novels that are a mere shadow of the great literary works I used to create. The fact that my romance novels sell better than my previous works are the cause of much bitterness in my life. I churn out a novel once every two months like clockwork, live comfortably, and that bothers me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. To be honest, I miss the struggle. But I just cannot write like I used to. I am burned out and bitter and angry and now I am writing in run on sentences.

I think I am becoming a lush. Hard to tell for sure, but I suspect I might be getting there. I can no longer write unless I apply the proper level of lubricant to my mind. I cannot seem to shut the voices up in my mind long enough to get any writing done unless I silence them with a fine red or a healthy jigger of rum. I am writing this right now in a highly lubricated state, which means I probably will not remember it until I go back and read it in the morning… or the afternoon, whenever it might be that I wake up and crawl out of bed. Purple Prosie, you should be ashamed of yourself. You used to be somepony! Get your posie covered plot out of the slump you’ve been in. Also, you are out of rum, the spicy brown kind that allows you to write the extra sloppy cloppy stuff that pays the bills.

This is a terrible state of affairs. Without my constant companions, Morose and Melancholy, I think I would be totally lost.

Also, you should think about tapping into your considerable savings and going on vacation. Or buying a remote retreat, a writer's paradise, but make sure you stock the wet bar if you are on the fringes of civilisation.

Purple Prosie awoke to a strange pain in her nethers and a thumping marching band parading through her head. She twisted in her bed, causing the pain in her nethers to spike to agonising levels. She reached down with a front hoof, feeling between her legs, groping around under the blankets, and found the cause of her pain.

She had fallen asleep with a wine bottle lodged in her filly bits.

Again.

What had she been up to last night?

She dislodged the bottle from her filly bits with an audible pop and then heaved a sigh of relief. She rubbed her muzzle with her fetlock, and then wiped the crusted sleepy from her eyes. She struggled to get out of bed, her spine crackling and popping as she twisted her body around.

She fell as she got out of the bed, hitting the floor with a thud, causing her head to nearly explode, a brand new heart beating just behind her horn. Her ears flopped over her eyes, trying to keep out the dim light attempting to shine through her window shades and commit homicide on her amber irised orbs.

“Damn you sunshine,” she muttered.

Purple Prosie reached down and gave her filly bits a good scratching with her hoof, getting rid of the morning itchies, and, after several moments of scratching, she rolled her hips and scratched just under her dock.

In a moment of terrible self abuse, she lifted her hoof to her own nose and sniffed it, causing her to gag violently. It was the surest way she knew to wake up and clear her head. The rush of chemicals her brain released due to the violent gagging caused a state of near instant awareness.

“I have a terrible case of writer’s crack. I sit in my chair for too long,” Purple Prosie grumbled to herself as she scrambled to her hooves. She staggered through her room, kicking a bottle with her hoof, and then stepped on another, which rolled under her hoof, causing her to stumble and fall. She slammed into the floor snoot-first, seeing stars and hearing bells.

“Oh buck me sideways,” she whimpered, licking her nose and checking for blood.

Purple Prosie climbed to her hooves again and continued her struggle to reach the bathroom. She navigated the many pitfalls of her room, stumbled down the hall, glanced at the typewriter in her writing nook, and then walked into her bathroom.

She parked her plot over the toilet and let go, feeling a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. She closed her eyes and moaned. There was nothing quite like this sensation.

Purple Prosie realised she had made a terrible error when she heard the clearing of a throat. She had not closed the bathroom door. And she had not locked the front door last night.

“Hi Prosie,” said a small squeaky sounding voice.

“Ugh, Melancholy, what are you doing here?” Prosie asked, opening her eyes and seeing a tawny coloured donkey foal staring at her intently.

“Mom sent me up to check on you. She heard a thump on our ceiling. She has coffee,” the foal replied, her long floppy ears bobbing as she spoke.

“Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” Prosie asked the staring foal.

“Haven’t you ever heard of self respect?” the foal replied.

Prosie farted loudly and it echoed in the bowl, causing Melancholy to flinch in disgust.

“I’m not sorry Mel,” Purple Prosie said, giggling, her shaking body causing another fart to be loosened from her backside.

“I don’t know why my mother and I love you,” said Melancholy.

“I help you with your homework and you get A’s in school,” replied Purple Prosie.

“There is that,” the little donkey foal agreed.

“And I am the only adult who will talk to you like an adult and not treat you like a total foal,” Purple Prosie added.

Melancholy sighed in agreement. “My choice in role models is going to cause me no end of problems as I mature into an adult,” the foal stated matter of factly.

---

Purple Prosie sat drinking her coffee in Morose’s kitchen. She had nearly tumbled down the stairs on her way down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head still ached. She hadn’t showered. Coffee had been too tempting.

“You look awful,” Morose commented.

“I feel as bad as I look,” replied Purple Prosie.

“You look pretty bad,” quipped Melancholy.

Purple Prosie liked her coffee like she liked her life. Dark and bitter. And this coffee was perfect. You could practically stand the spoon up in it.

“I was hoping that you could help me later today,” Morose mentioned as she began cooking lunch.

“Eh?” grunted Purple Prosie.

“I need your magic. It is laundry day,” explained Morose.

“Oh, I can do that,” muttered Purple Prosie around her coffee mug.

Being a unicorn made everything easier. It was difficult to fold laundry with hooves. It was difficult to do a lot of things with hooves. Using a typewriter for example, was very very difficult with hooves. As an extra added bonus, all she had to do as a unicorn to avoid having an enormous plot was use lots and lots of magic every day, burning away excess calories. Her constant use of her typewriter and other magical applications meant that she could sit down, indulge,, and tuck into the entire lime custard pie. All she had to do was keep casting magic.

Which she had been neglecting a bit lately. Her plot was getting big. Morose had warned Purple Prosie that her plot was approaching plot-e-licious levels of size. She sipped her coffee, wondering if her coffee found her bitter.

“I need a vacation,” Purple Prosie announced.

“You sleep the day away, you stay up all night hammering away on that infernal typewriter, spend more and more of your time more than a little tipsy, and you need a vacation?” asked Morose.

“Yeah, I was thinking all of us could go somewhere. Together. So I don’t have to get drunk and debauch myself all alone on some beach somewhere,” Purple Prosie replied.

Purple Prosie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. She had certainly debauched herself last night. She had written halfway through some starry epic love scene in her current novel, succumbed to horny lust, and then debauched herself with a wine bottle until she had passed out in bed. At least, that is what she thought had happened. She couldn’t be quite sure.

Purple Prosie caught a whiff of food, felt nauseous, and cursed her hangover. She sniffed again. Morose was cooking leftover red beans and rice.

Morose was a donkey from swamp country, growing up around the swamp ponies. Morose was Purple Prosie’s constant companion, best friend, confidant, personal cheerleader, and usually the cook as well.

The kitchen was filled with a delightful spicy smell and Purple Prosie felt a pang of regret that she was in no mood to enjoy it.

Author's Note:

Let me know what you think. I'm throwing this at the wall to see if it sticks.

It it doesn't, it will probably linger in literary purgatory like a couple of other stories that are mostly ignored and unread.

Comments

[Emtu]

Seems interesting enough, I'd stick with it if it continues.

[Iroh Legoman]

interesting.....

[Lululu]

Let me know what you think. I'm throwing this at the wall to see if it sticks.

It stuck, to my mind at least.

[Derpy_Dragon]

I like what I see so far. I would keep reading this.

[Derpyx0]

It definitely stuck! I was scrolling through your stories, and this one caught my eye. With your recent fame and all, I'm hoping that you'll continue with this. Oh, and here are some errors I found:

The Princess Cadance

The Princess Cadence? If you say it like that, it should be:

The princess, Cadance

Her constant use of her typewriter and other magical applications meant that she could sit down, indulge,, and tuck into the entire lime custard pie.

After indulge, there should only be one comma.

[Beware The Carpenter]

I'm noticing a still continuing idea of single mothers

Aside from that, this could be interesting; I can definitely relate to feeling discouraged about not writing as well as you used to or think you should, though thankfully I've never woken up with a wine bottle up my bum.

I'll give it a shot.

[Beware The Carpenter]

4429243

The story.

I'll give the story a shot; not waking up with a wine bottle up my bum.