The Badly Written Life of Purple Prosie

by kudzuhaiku

Chapter 3

Life just keeps getting worse and worse. I think I need to go to the doctor. I’ve been having some burning discharge. I’ve either caught something again or the wine bottles crammed into my filly bits has been a bad idea. Either way, I need to schedule an appointment and get it checked out.

I really hope I do not have another STI. That would suck.

In other news, ponies suck. Really, they do. Some of the landscapers working down the street shouted “donkey lover” to me while I was sitting in the front yard with Morose. I would have been mostly fine with it and would have let it go, but Melancholy was sitting in the front yard with us. So I had to go break a pony’s jaw and dislocate his hip. And I did it without magic too, using good old fashioned pony on pony violence to educate some hapless cretin about good social graces. I might hate my mother for everything else she has done, but getting me to go to self defense courses before university was a great idea.

Morose tried to scold me for two hours straight, but kept laughing every time she made the attempt. Something about a squat rather chubby unicorn with posies on her backside kicking the dirt out of an earth pony twice her size really is rather funny when you think about it. Melancholy’s hero worship is bound to become unbearable now.

Oh, my dear typewriter, I do love you so, you are so much cheaper than a therapist and you don’t mind if I drink while I am baring my soul.

---

Purple Prosie lay in her bathtub, drinking and staring at the ceiling. This seemed to be as good of a way to pass the time as any. As she did so, her typewriter clicked and pinged occasionally, sitting on a table some distance away in the bathroom.

She thought about drowning herself as she slowly typed about the young mare and her growing fascination with the rippling neck muscles of her love interest. Right now, it was neck muscles, in a few months, it might go back to well toned plot muscles. In a year from now, it would be chiseled jawlines and squared snouts. It was all the same really. Focus desire on -blank- and develop a burgeoning curiousity.

Rippling neck muscles...

Purple Prosie swallowed all of her remaining drink, cursed an unheard by anypony string of vulgarities, and then belched loudly.

It was well past midnight, and Melancholy was sleeping in the spare room, on a bed that Purple Prosie had purchased just for her, waiting for her mother to come home. Lucky foal had two bedrooms and left both of them messy.

There was no denying it, Purple Prosie knew she was getting fat. Her wide hips actually brushed up against each side of the bathtub. She poked her belly with a hoof, noticing she wasn’t as toned as usual, but softer and pudgier.

She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. The clicking from her typewriter died.

Her readers would die if they knew that Sultry Satin was a pudgy loveless mare that couldn’t find love.

Sultry Satin looked longingly at her one true love. His body was short and squared off, his neck long and well defined. She longed for his touch, to take him between her lips, to feel the hot rush of his liquid love flowing over her lips, down her throat, burning her throat with the savage heat of torrid love, their love forbidden and condemned in a society that would never accept them. Sultry Satin’s love was perfect, transparent, allowing Sultry to see inside to his very soul, making her lick her lips in desire and crave his taste to run rivulets over her tongue as she lapped longingly at his flared opening.

“Oh Rum Bottle, I think I love you!”

Purple Prosie came to with a snort, the clacking of her typewriter drawing her back into reality. She didn’t even need to see the paper to know what she had typed, her wandering mind has written down everything she was thinking by channeling the typewriter through her horn.

“Oh dog farts,” muttered Purple Prosie.

---

Purple Prosie sat at the table with Morose, drinking coffee and staring blankly at a partially full plate. She felt awful. Her head thudded, her back hurt from falling asleep in the tub, and her eyes were red and bloodshot.

“You really need to dry out Prosie, I’m worried,” Morose said softly.

“I am too,” agreed Prosie.

Both mares paused, hearing the front door open and then slammed closed.

“Melly!” shouted Morose, glad to hear her foal.

“I have mail!” exclaimed Melancholy. “There is something for Her Royal Purpleness,” she added, her hooves clattering over the battered hardwood floor.

Melancholy came into the kitchen, several envelopes on her back, and Purple Prosie lifted them all with her magic. She took the one addressed to her and placed the rest upon the table.

Morose watched as Purple Prosie tore open the envelope, read the letter, and then scowled. She started to read the second page and her scowl worsened, Purple Prosie somehow looking even worse than she already did.

“What is it?” asked Morose gently. “Bad news?”

“No,” replied Purple Prosie, not explaining, just dropping the papers onto the table and drinking down the remainder of her coffee in one gulp.

“Well, if I may pry, what is it? You seem upset. What is troubling you?” asked Morose, her voice thick with concern.

“Have a look for yourself,” grunted Purple Prosie, grimacing from the hot bitter coffee.

Morose dragged the paper towards her with a hoof, picking them up and looking at them. Melancholy sat down, looking worried, her eyes wide with apprehension and concern. She glanced at her mother and Purple Prosie, her long ears framing her face.

“This is…” gasped Morose, unable to finish.

Purple Prosie nodded, her face full of disgust.

“This is a proposal worth six figures worth of bits…” muttered Morose in shock.

“Yeah, they want to make a movie about the millionairess philanthropist pony who gave away all of her money, volunteered to work in a soup kitchen, fell in love with a homeless vagrant, and then both of them started a business creating sappy cards with kitschy sayings, fell madly in love with one another as they exchanged cards they had written for one another, and then sold those card ideas to the public and made billions with their greeting card business. It made the bestseller list and stayed there for a whole twenty one months, breaking some sort of record, surviving changing trends and ever changing pop culture. Of course they want a movie,” Purple Prosie said, almost spitting with anger, her voice dripping with vitriol.

“Shouldn’t you be happy?” asked Morose.

“No!” snapped Purple Prosie.

“I do not understand you at times,” whispered Morose.

“Purple Prosie lives in constant conflict with her values, her need for stasis, and her need to remain comfortable. Change causes discomfort,” Melancholy quipped.

Both mares looked at the foal, both in shock, Purple Prosie setting down her coffee cup.

“That’s it. I quit!” Purple Prosie barked.

“But-” stammered Morose, still holding the papers.

“Yay!” shouted Melancholy, looking jubilant. “Maybe you can be happy again!”

“I will give you every single bit that is due from that advance for a movie if you will quit your job right now Morose and become my housekeeper,” offered Purple Prosie.

Morose gasped and dropped the papers, they fluttered down to the floor.

“Mommy?” inquired Melancholy, looking hopeful.

“I… Purple Prosie… I, uh, I don’t know how to answer that,” Morose stuttered, her eyes blinking rapidly in shock.

“Mommy, you work too hard and I miss you,” pleaded Melancholy, using her most pathetic sounding and manipulative tone.

“I-” began Morose.

“You will finally have enough to send me to that school for the gifted,” Melancholy interrupted, her eyes wide and pleading.

“I’ve offered to pay for that so many times now,” said Purple Prosie.

“You now have a housekeeper,” mumbled Morose.

“YES! Finally!” shouted Purple Prosie. “I can selfishly have my friend around at all hours of the day to comfort me and cater to my whims!”

Comments

[Derpyx0]

Awww..... I want one of those friends! Are they for sale?