One is looking forward to unwinding...
THE SECRET JOURNAL OF SPOILED ROTTEN RICH. NOT TO BE READ, BROWSED, WRITTEN IN, PICKED UP OR BREATHED ON BY ANYPONY ELSE. THE PENALTY FOR DEFIANCE OF THESE RULES WILL BE SEVERE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
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Latest Entry:
After a most invigorating luncheon, I informed my little daughter I would be staying home this afternoon to teach her the finer points of needlework (ha ha), cutlery polishing and table etiquette. I also told her that we would be practicing her keys on the piano, and rehearsing for the tryouts of the ballet recital next week. She tells me she hates these elite activities, but I know my precious is just nervous.
She then asked to use the little filly's room before our hours of productive training began, and being the amicable mare I am, I gave my permission. After all, she won't be allowed to go during our sessions together, and we don't want any accidents on my plush carpet like last time mid-pirouette, do we? She bolted up the stairs as if her very life depended on it, and disappeared into the bathroom. Gosh, she must've been holding that in for a while.
After tarrying in vain the next ten minutes for my offspring to conclude her business and return to me, I begin to get slightly impatient. Has she fallen down the drain, or something? Because that's exactly where her life is headed, if she doesn't start paying attention to me again. What's wrong with wanting your daughter to be the best at everything? The way she's been slacking lately, you'd think I was pushing her too hard. But if I could take that kind of pressure as a filly, I'm sure she can. Pure laziness, that's what it is.
I ascend the stairs to find out exactly what is going on. After a couple of stern commands to respond remain unanswered, I decide to take matters into my own hooves. Trying the door to discover it unlocked, I swing it wide to reveal a most troubling sight. The window open, and a fresh batch of my finest silken sheets knotted together to form a makeshift rope to the bottom of the grounds, with some telltale hoofprints leading away from the scene of the crime. It's official: My treasure is no better than a prison escapee.
You know the worst thing, though? I'm not in the least bit surprised.
She's been on the slippery slope since she humiliated me outside the school a few months ago, defending some young blank flank rapscallions who I later learned got their marks. Huh, that still doesn't make them any more than insignificant low-lives. Just insignificant low-lives with cutie symbols. Useless ones too, that imply the three of them will be bonded together forever as an unholy trio. It's a good thing I suppose for the community at large, because as a group they can do far less damage than they could individually. The way they infected my now rebellious daughter with their sick ideals of equality and friendship continues to scar our relationship to this day.
I just hope it's not too late for her to recover. Me and my husband are currently scouring the Filly Pages, to find the best psychiatrist bits can buy to restore her to her former self. He seemed reluctant initially, even making light of such a major catastrophe, but a stern pep talk from me soon got him with the program. Like it always does.
In the meantime, we'll have to tolerate her new hobbies of pie-making classes, schmaltzy Hearthswarming singing and hanging around with the undesirable elements of society. The only thing keeping me going these days is the thought she might be cured.
Please let it be soon. I'm not too sure I can take more much of her doing her own chores rather than relying on our paid-for servants, or giving all of her generous allowance to various charities I've never even heard of before. I mean, who cares about penniless griffons or displaced changelings?! Not me, that's for sure. Not her, either... Until those things got ahold of her and warped her fragile little mind.
Aargh!! I can't stand it. I need a bit of R&R to take my mind off of things. After informing the hired help of my plans, I take a short walk to the local spa. Usually, I'd travel in style in a stallion-drawn carriage, but today I'm feeling a tiny bit anarchistic. Blame my daughter's recent influence for this aberrance.
If I spot her in town on my travels... Well, let's just say the tongue-lashing I administered to her after the school election debacle will be a cakewalk in comparison. For her sake, I hope she's made herself scarce for now, until I've cooled off. The spa should soothe my thoughts, so I'll be far less harsh on her later than she really deserves. What a lucky, lucky filly.
I arrive at the building, having seen no sign of my daughter during my journey. She must be hanging about in that deathtrap tree construction with her newfound chums again. She'll come home later dirty, excited and loud, with a great big goofy grin on her face. Ugh. How vulgar. What must the glitterati of Canterlot think of us now?
Well, this time she can rinse the mud out of her own mane, and pluck the splinters out of her hooves by herself, because I'm done. How could she veer off track so comprehensively? I don't even recognise her these days. The onset of her therapy can't come soon enough.
Even her own best friend, who used to do everything she was told, seems different these days, far less... Subservient, for one. Perhaps I should contact her parents as well, see if we can organise a dual appointment for them both. We might even be able to get a discount.
I'm in such a distressed frame of mind that I don't even laugh at that cross-eyed mailmare colliding with the bell as usual, as I approach the Ponyville Day Spa in earnest, ready for my deluxe session. Somepony with as much gravitas and capital as me only warrants the very best treatment, of course. After all, this pristine equine form, as gorgeous as it is, can't maintain itself forever, you know.
Everypony here respects me, as is evidenced by the way they stop and stare as I enter with my head held high, a rose among thorns. Sometimes I even hear them whispering my name in hushed tones out of complete adulation. Still, I wish at least one of those serfs would get it right one of these days... My surname starts with an R, not a B. You can't expect miracles from the underclass, I suppose. Like, their continual refusal to roll out a red carpet when they see me drawing near. They'll learn eventually, I hope.
I march straight up to the pink pony who works there (not the hyperactive schizoid one, fortunately) and demand to be seen to immediately, starting off with the premium sauna package. After avoiding her usual nauseating attempt to kiss me on both cheeks, she responds in that funny accent of hers about how lovely it is to see me today, but even though they appreciate my regular custom, there is a bit of a problem with the steam room at the moment, and a slight queue has formed, so she apologises for any inconvenience caused.
Inconvenienced? I'm positively livid!! How dare she address me with such callous disregard for the copious amounts of coin I've invested here over the years, not to mention all of the free publicity I give them every time I simply show up. I make this point to the foreigner quite fervently in a long rant, but her only response to my diatribe is a myriad of glances upwards. I've noticed a lot of other ponies do that around me, too... Counting the cracks in the ceiling or watching the pegusi in the sky must be a popular pastime among the less well-off.
Eventually, I lose patience with the cloth-eared mare in front of me, and decide to see exactly how long this supposed line is. I brush past her pathetic attempt to stop my progress, and delve further into the spa. Past all the other ponies lying around with cucumber slices and mud packs on, while that white musclebound monstrosity gives another one of his infamous massages.
Having experienced one first hoof, I'm not too proud to say that they're pretty good. The problem is, they're delivered by somepony who's just so unsettling to look at. With that being the case, bringing reading material into that room is mandatory. Just one glance at that grotesque figure would be enough to put you off utilising his services forever. Which would be a shame, as for all of his numerous aesthetic faults, you sure feel limber afterwards.
Well, what do you know. The pastel-coloured immigrant was telling the truth. The queue for the steam room stretches from one wall to the next, and any hopes a new arrival would have of getting in early would quickly be dashed. Fortunately, I'm not just anypony though, and I want, no expect to be treated with a little more bias than the vast majority of these commoners. Not too much to ask really, is it?
So, in pleading my case, I passionately orated the speech to end all speeches to those ponies. To look past their inherent jealousy of me. To appeal to whatever blue blood from some long, long distant ancestor that may flow through their veins. To see me as I truly was, a paragon of the community, a local paradigm, their superior in every way. But right now, just a mare in need. All I wanted from them was their eternal love, devotion and support... Also, a place at the head of the line.
You know what should have happened next? For those ponies to bow down in submission. To concur that everything I said was absolutely correct. To make way for me without a moment's hesitation.
You know what actually happened? Looks of confusion everywhere. A few stifled laughs, Even more of them gravitating their pupils to the tops of their eyeballs, a trend I'm really starting to get sick of. They must be humbled, poor dears, that a grande mare such as I would demean myself to ask such a paltry favour from their sort.
Fortunately, I had just the solution to bring them out of their awestruck catatonia.
The bits went flying everywhere. I always keep some on my personage, in the event of matters of vital importance cropping up such as this. I take the loose change out of the aptly titled 'For Emergencies Only' safe in my husband's office. Occasionally, he has the temerity to lecture me on 'misappropriating' the funds, a charge I completely refute. What could be more of a crisis, than me being stuck behind a menagerie of lesser beings waiting for my pores to be unclogged?
Being the greedy little mules they are, the underclass followed the shiny like parasprites would pursue a polka band. A whole mass of bodies sprawled to retrieve as much of the currency as possible, allowing me to slip in undetected and claim what was rightfully mine all along. I am a true lady at heart, but even I couldn't resist a slightly smug smirk of satisfaction as the dust cleared, and my newly minted lackeys realised they'd been duped by yours truly.
They could grunt. They could growl. They could swear under their breath as much as they wanted. But the long and short of it is, I won. Just like I always do. Well, except for one pressing concern at the moment, but its early days yet. We'll see what happens in the end...
Anyway, I'm sure in time the other ponies there will realise I was just aiding and abetting them in reaching the obvious conclusion. Not that I expect any gratitude, mind you. Nopony has ever shown proper appreciation for anything I've ever done for them, least of all my own daughter.
She insisted just the other day I destroy a very expensive stained-glass window and statue I had especially commissioned in her likeness. I informed her that I carried out the task, but I secretly stashed them in storage instead for when I manage to restore her to default settings. It'll happen, mark my words.
Oops, I'm dwelling yet again on the one thing I came here to escape from. I once more try to focus on the present, and the fact that it appears to be rather drafty around here. Thank goodness for the perpetual flow of hot towels they bring you, or I'd be an ice cube by now. As many as the others take, I grab twice the amount. They learned long ago here that it was essential that a mare of my unique constitution needs to be properly insulated at all times.
Still, as cosy as I am, I'm still getting a little fed up of waiting. My husband will be home soon, and as much as I never owe him an explanation for anything, I do like to be there when he returns. I always greet him with a little peck on the cheek, a comforting hug, and a slip of paper detailing my monetary needs for the subsequent day. He always says it's too much, but I counter with my inarguable point that objet d'arts simply don't buy themselves. If there's ever anything one can never get enough of, its valuable trinkets.
I'm venting at the blue stallion standing next to me, who rudely turns away whenever I try to catch his eye, when it finally looks like there's movement ahead. I see my over-familiar pink friend from before turn the corner, and this time she's accompanied by two other mares.
One is that dressmaker who makes passable outfits in town, who incredibly seems to be making the most of her modicum of talent by expanding into Canterlot. Must be her connections with a certain princess. I used her once before, when a passing cart splashed muck on my frock and there were no better alternatives within distance. She doesn't charge very much, which is just as well as her stitching is mediocre at best. Still, if you reside in a backwater like Ponyville, beggars can't be choosers...
The other pony seems the most intent on speaking to us, and what a piece of work she is. A garish orange in hue. Rough-looking. Filthy yellow mane blowing free. Looks like she's spent her life labouring on the fields. The sort of pony I'd usually cross the street to avoid. But, unwilling to lose my place, I have no choice but to stay there and watch those well-worn hooves clop ever closer...
It gets worse. When she's within a few feet, that's when I recognise her properly. She's a member of that awful family my husband does business with. I know this because he, completely against my expressed wishes, has invited her back to the mansion for a glass of cider on a few occasions to celebrate successful apple crops.
I've told him numerous time I don't care how much cash she helps the Rich's rake in, I don't want that thing in my house messing up my marble floors and plush furniture. He mumbles an apology afterwards and says he'll never do it again, but he always does. It's gotten to the point where I even think sometimes he prefers the company of that hayseed to moi. Fortunately, such outlandish notions are soon crushed by the cold light of reality. Choosing her over me? As if!!
I also suspect her and that boutique owner's sisters have had something to do with the complete mental breakdown of my daughter. While I would love to harangue them both for their poor discipline and lousy supervision of their younger siblings, this is neither the time nor the venue for such talk.
No, that'll be a courtroom in the unlikely event whatever qualified specialist I hire to take care of my child fails to rescue her from the brink of insanity. Then, I'd have to resort to more... Intrusive methods, that aren't covered by my medical insurance. Guess who'll be hoofing the bill for them? Clue: Not me.
So, it is with a distinctly fake smile and friendly face that I greet her questions, in a masterful performance that would surely win me awards if any movie producer was watching. First, she speaks to that obnoxious stallion adjacent to me, then it's my turn. I grace her with the knowledge that I'm here for the steam room the same as everypony else, along with slipping in the little detail that I reside in a huge mansion that could hold fifteen of her dinky little farms.
She answers me by doing that stupid eye thing again (seriously, just what is up with that?!) along with everypony else. Then she starts waffling on in that annoying yokel of hers about a broken fixture needing to be repaired, before an odd moment occurs where she seems to pose dramatically with a toolbag and who-on-Tartarus-cares. I want my refreshing hot steam bath. I need it right now.
I begin complaining to the blue stallion again, who once more proves to be a most uncooperative listener. The staff should be working to solve the problem, whatever it is, not running around following pipes, listening to that dumb rustic pony who I'm sure can't even eat using a knife and fork and doesn't have the slightest idea what she's do... Oh, it's working again.
Well, what do you know... The uncultured rube has some talent after all, even though her skills are entirely limited to menial physical work that doesn't require much brainpower. Colour me shocked. In fact, so impressed am I by her prowess, I may even have been tempted to hire her to fix the toilets at my address on the rare occasions they become blocked, if it wasn't for the fact that, you know, I despise their entire family.
Still, not to worry. She'd filled a useful function for today, and that's all that matters. I quickly rush into the steam room first, taking up prime position in the centre, to burrow myself in cloudy bliss for the next half-hour or so. I shan't bore this journal with the rest of the details of my afternoon of luxury, but sufficed to say after it was all over, I felt like a new mare. Not that my usual fine self is lacking in any way, of course.
I exit at round about the same time as the redneck and her unicorn friend finish their treatment, now accompanied by a multi-coloured pegasus I may have glanced in the sky once in a while. She has the habit of creating intrusive rainbows and leaving deafening sonic booms in her wake, totally ruining the atmosphere of my especially organised parties with her showing-off. Completely inconsiderate of course, but not unexpected considering the company she keeps, and as a caveat, I do like her slippers.
As usual, a crowd of ignorant buffoons surrounds this trio of opportunists, which I'm forced to navigate around as I try to leave. What makes this bunch of ponies more worthy of commanding deference, than me? The beautiful wife of the most respected businesspony in town? The mare in charge of a lot of their useless progeny's futures as head of the school board? Anypony would think the trio causing such a ruckus in front of me had just saved the world, or something. Whatever. Just let me pass, so I can egress this madness.
When I finally arrive home, it's late... But my husband and daughter still aren't back. Oh well, they're the ones that are missing out on spending time with me. I get one of my strangely nervous-looking maids to pour me a glass of wine, before I start to sit down on my favourite seat to consider my promising future...
That's when I see it.
There's a note on my chair.
I glance at it quickly, before scrunching it up and throwing it away. If it's written by my husband it can't be anything important. Probably begging my forgiveness for forgetting to buy me a more expensive necklace, or something. He needn't worry about that... I'll more than 'persuade' him to make it up to me next time we're at the jewelers.
Hang on just a minute...
My wine glass drops and shatters.
I rush back to the bin where I deposited the piece of paper. It didn't register at the time, but two words stood out to me a few moments after my initial read-through.
They were 'trial' and 'separation'.
I peruse the rest of the text. Once, twice, three times, with more steam coming out of my ears than in the room I casually reclined in earlier.
Why, that dirty, no good, rotten...
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The rest of the journal has all the pages torn out, along with lots of horseshoe marks on the cover as if repeatedly stamped on. It was found in the midst of a tip by a rubbish disposal worker, and is being published now without permission. It's exact origin and time of writing is unknown, and some names have been erased to protect the identities of the living. The author could not be reached for comment.