The Pages of Fear


                                            >You have a problem, and it’s not necessarily your broken ankle, which is currently in a cast, and will be for two months.

                                            >It’s not a money problem, either.

                                            >Twilight set up an emergency fund for you in your bank (for fun, she claims) that you were putting money away in, and you’re living off of that now.

                                            >No, you have a rapist problem, the problem specifically being that she’s in your house right now.

                                            >From the couch, which is pretty much the only place you’ve been these past weeks, you watch as she takes her feather duster and goes around your house, carefully dusting your things and humming while she does so.

                                            >God you hate her.

                                            >She showed up this morning wearing a little French maid outfit, and hasn’t left for over four hours.

                                            >Whenever you do tell her to leave, she’ll just make some kind of mess in front of you as an excuse to stay.

                                            >She bends over in front of you, too, while cleaning in an attempt to get you to stare at her rump.

                                            >She yelped the first time because you jabbed her butt cheek with the tip of one of your crutches.

                                            >But she’s learned not to bend over too close to you since, and so now you’re pretty much helpless.

                                            >After all it’s not like you’re going to leave your couch for anything less than an emergency. And she knows this.

                                            >Walking around with your crutches has just become too much of a chore since they put your cast on.

                                            >Hell, when you got out of the hospital, you fell down the steps to your porch three times just trying to get up them.

                                            >You’re kind of afraid of those stairs now.

                                            >So, to move as little as possible, you had Fluttershy move everything you needed close to the couch, like your pillow, and the kitchen trash bucket.

                                            >But now, since you can’t chase Fluttershy away from you anymore, she comes over all of the time, only really leaving every other hour so that she can check on her animals.

                                            >You look and see that Fluttershy, bending over and with her skirt turned up, is pouring chocolate syrup all over her rump.

                                            >“Oh, look at how dirty I’m getting,” she says whilst wiggling her drippy brown rear your way. “I hope someone nearby can help clean me up.”

                                            >God you’d give anything to be able to whack her with your crutches right now.

                                            Don’t you think it’s about time you left, so you can check on your animals?

                                            >She stops pouring and turns to you, sweetness in her eyes.

                                            >“They can look after themselves for just one itty bitty hour. But who’s going to care for my poor injured little human while momma’s away in that time?”

                                            I can take care of myself. And you’re the one who injured me.

                                            >“Nope. You stepped in a gopher hole.”

                                            Because you stole my spare key and I had to chase after you.

                                            >“Well you shouldn’t have been running in the dark.”

                                            You shouldn’t have tried to get in bed with me while I was still sleeping!

                                            >“You look so peaceful and sexy when you sleep,” she says wistfully. “Anyway, are you going to lick my flanks, or . . .?”

                                            No.

                                            >But feeling hungry, you send Fluttershy out to do some shopping for you.

                                            >She does all right in this, except when she buys things purely to try and fetishize them later, like chocolate syrup.

                                            >She leaves, saying she’ll be back in half an hour.

                                            >You relish in the peace of solitude when she leaves, for about five minutes anyway.

                                            >Unfortunately, ever since you broke your ankle, you’ve become much more prone to boredom.

                                            >Having Fluttershy around alleviates it somewhat but mostly you’re just looking for anything to do.

                                            >Going out is a pain with this cast on. You move way too slow on your crutches to really get anywhere, so you never go anywhere.

                                            >And since there’s nothing to do at home, you pretty much feel like a prisoner under house arrest, with Fluttershy being your occasional visitor.

                                            >The only things you really look forward to doing anymore are eating and sleeping.

                                            >Ever since you got injured, you’ve found that you can snack and nap a day away like no one else.

                                            >But when that isn’t enough and you still feel bored, you always pull out your ace in the hole, and start masturbating.

                                            >These are all good things to do, but even masturbating, after depending on it every day for entertainment, is starting to lose its fun.

                                            >Besides that, you can hardly shower with this cast on.

                                            >And you can only clean your own spunk off of your belly by wiping it with your hand so many times before the shame pushes you to start reaching down for the bleach whenever you go to the sink to wash yourself.

                                            >Finally, when you wake up from your fifth morning nap of the day, you hear Fluttershy knocking on the door.

                                            >She just lets herself in these days rather than wait for you to answer.

                                            >You think that she only knocks first out of habit.

                                            >Fidgeting on the couch, you rub your sore neck and judge that she must’ve been gone for hours, definitely not the half hour she said she’d take.

                                            You’re late, you say to her.

                                            >“I’m sorry,” she says.

                                            >She shuts the door behind her and takes her bags over to the coffee table in front of you.

                                            >“I shopped for you, and had to run some other errands. Then I went to check on the critters before coming back.”

                                            >No wonder she took so long.

                                            >You look at the clock.

                                            >She’s been gone for only forty five minutes.

                                            >You sigh deeply, knowing that this is going to be another very long day.

                                            >“I want to show you something I brought back,” she says.

                                            Is it food? If it’s anything else, I don’t care.

                                            >“It’s not food,” she says to you, with a straight face, beaming even.

                                            But I’m hungry, dammit.

                                            >“It’s something special,” she says. “Something which I think might help get your blood flowing.”

                                            >You catch in her eye a certain twinkle that you’ve seen before in her whenever you used to answer your door in the morning.

                                            >A feeling of dread falls into your stomach when she reaches into one of the bags, pulls out a brown paper wrapper, and then lays it on your lap.

                                            >She looks away from your wary expression as color rises to her heated cheeks.

                                            >“It was actually kind of awkward for me to get this for you. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it.”

                                            >You’re not thrilled to hear that Fluttershy, the same mare that once relieved herself on your carpet to see if it was your fetish (twice), just gave you something she considers to be beyond her comfort zone.

                                            >“But I thought it would help you. So go on,” she says, waving a hoof encouragingly your way. “Go on and see what’s inside.”

                                            >She looks hopefully at you, gauging your reaction, as you reach into the wrapper and grab what feels like a bunch of magazines.

                                            >You smile briefly, thinking she might have gotten you something to read.

                                            >Then you pull the small stack out, and the mare on the first cover you see is dripping wet all over as she tickles herself with a riding crop on her—

                                            What the fuck! you say as the magazines fly out of your raised hands and float around the room like doves released during a ceremony.

                                            >Fluttershy flies round and gathers them up, placing them on the table in a neat stack that you refuse to look at.

                                            >“You didn’t like your surprise?”

                                            That was pony porn, Fluttershy.

                                            >“I know,” she says. “But I want you to look at them, and then masturbate.”

                                            No way. I don’t like ponies. I’ve been very clear on this point with you before.

                                            >“But if you would just look, I’m sure that you could find something in it that you would like.”

                                            And then you could exploit that in order to get me to like you. Is that it?

                                            >She shrinks back at this accusation.

                                            >“No,” she says. “Well, maybe, eventually, yes. But we could start slow and paste my head onto the pictures that you like best first.”

                                            >You scowl at her sheepish, cloying grin.

                                            >“Baby steps.”

                                            I don’t want the pony porn, and I think you should leave now.

                                            >“Are you sure? What are you going to eat?”

                                            Did you buy peanut butter?

                                            >She nods. You take your spoon out of your pocket.

                                            Then I can take care of eating.

                                            >“Okay,” she says. “But I’m going to leave these magazines here for you.”

                                            Goddammit, no. I said I didn’t want them.

                                            >But she ignores you and rushes for the door.

                                            >“Read the articles in them at least,” she says before shutting the door behind her. “I’ll be back soon to check on you.”

                                            >You glare at the door for a while before reaching for the peanut butter.

                                            >It’s chunky.

                                            >You wanted smooth.

                                            Fucking Fluttershy.


                                            >After finishing half the jar of peanut butter, you decide to take a nap.

                                            >When you wake up, you look out the window and, judging from the position the sun is in now, you feel that you’ve accomplished a grand feat of passing time.

                                            >Check the time.

                                            >It’s only been twenty minutes since Fluttershy left.

                                            Motherfucker, you groan.

                                            >You crash back against the couch and, leaning your head back, stare up into the void of ceiling emptily.

                                            I’m so bored, you mutter to yourself.

                                            >You start wondering when Fluttershy is going to come back.

                                            >Then your mind turns to those magazines.

                                            >You would never tug yourself to them, but Fluttershy did say they had articles.

                                            >And articles involve reading, and reading passes time.

                                            >You sit up straight and look at the tempting stack.

                                            >No; no, if Fluttershy even sees you looking at them then you’ll never stop being bothered about it by her.

                                            >You can hear her voice now: “Did you read them? Oh, you read them. I can tell. Describe what you read to me. I want you to make me feel really hot in my seat.”

                                            No way.

                                            >You crash back on the couch.

                                            >Absentmindedly, you feel your fingers moving down to your bulge, but you know that it’s no use.

                                            >You couldn’t get a cockstand if you even tried right now.

                                            >All you’re going to do is end up straining your groin, or bring on some kind of arthritic attack in your hand.

                                            >Sitting up, you look for something to do, but all you see are the magazines.

                                            >You check the clock again. Thirty minutes to the hour. She won’t be back soon.

                                            >And, you reason, there’s no need to fear looking at the magazines if you feel you can’t get a boner anyway.

                                            Am I really going to read the articles written in a pony porn magazine?

                                            >Your hand answers that for you as it drags your ass up to the edge of the couch and reaches for the stack.

                                            >Looking at the one on top, you see that it’s the one that had that wet mare with the riding crop on the cover.

                                            >The name of the magazine is Giddy Up.

                                            Nasty. I don’t want to see that again.

                                            >You flip the magazine over, only to find on the back that she now has the riding crop stuck in—

                                            Well that didn’t work, you say as you toss the mag over your shoulder and into the trash.

                                            >You move through the stack, encountering magazines similar to Giddy Up, before reaching one on the bottom.

                                            >It has a monstrously large stallion on the cover and is called Stable Stud Serial Magazine.

                                            >. . . After a moment, you wrinkle your brow.

                                            >Is this gay porn?

                                            >Did Fluttershy buy you gay porn?

                                            >You grab it and flip to a random page, a two page spread, and stare in amazement at what you see.

                                            Wow . . . that’s huge—ugh, what am I saying!

                                            >You snap the magazine shut for a while.

                                            >And then, remembering your boredom, you slowly open the magazine back up, to the first page, so you can scan the table of contents for the articles.

                                            >And you find them. And, well, you read them, all of them; and they weren’t really all that great.

                                            >But now at least you know that, if you wear visibly an orange bandana in certain bars, you’re sending a signal to other gay stallions that’s effectively saying “I’m up for anything tonight fellas!”

                                            Why would I ever need to know that? I had to flip through over twenty pages of big stallion cock just so that I could know that!

                                            >You toss the magazine sloppily onto the top of the pile.

                                            Fucking Fluttershy, buying me this stupid shit.

                                            >You lean back into the couch and stare at the ceiling for a while.

                                            >After sulking for a bit, you finally decide to fish Giddy Up out of the trash bin.

                                            All right Mrs. Riding Crop, let’s see if you’re any better.

                                            >After wiping the garbage off of the magazine, you open it.

                                            >And then, once you get started, something happens to you.

                                            >Unlike the stallion magazine, the more you read this one, the more pages you turn, the more mares you see pictured with warm open bodies and enchanting comely eyes, all presented for you, the more your curiosity rises.

                                            >Halfway through it, you realize that you could not put this magazine down even if Fluttershy walked in and suddenly announced she was in heat.

                                            >Before you know it, your hand has found its way back to your bulge, but this time you feel its quivering movement grazing slightly against your fingertips.

                                            >You turn more pages and feel even more excited.

                                            >Before you can question it, you’re unbuttoning your pants and pulling them down to your knees so that you can stroke and feel more freely.

                                            >All questions of right and wrong have been whipped away by Mrs. Riding Crop, and all that remains is the pleasure principle.

                                            >She calls and you come in answer.

                                            >You lean back in the couch, but in ecstasy as a shameless damp spot sticks up onto the white of your briefs.

                                            >Your hands are limp at your sides, one of them lightly holding onto Giddy Up as your eyes roll up.

                                            Oh, my God.

                                            >There’s a knock at the door.

                                            >You sit up, watch as the doorknob begins to turn, and then you look down at yourself.

                                            Oh my God.

                                            >You toss Giddy Up back into the trash and have just enough time to pull your pants back up to your waist before Fluttershy enters.

                                            >The swift movements made your ankle flare up in pain, and your face was already flushed and you were breathing heavily, but you put on a straight face so that Fluttershy wouldn’t notice anything odd.

                                            >She closes the door, turns around, and takes one look at you.

                                            >Immediately she frowns.

                                            >“Is something wrong?”

                                            >Great job hiding your true feelings, John Wayne would be proud of you.

                                            Oh, I just . . . No. Nothing. What?

                                            >“Let momma come check.”

                                            >She trots over to you, a concerned look on her face.

                                            >You watch warily as she gets nearer and nearer, before she bends down by your legs, and picks up your spoon off of the floor.

                                            >“You dropped your spoon,” she says. “Poor baby. I’ll bet you were trying to get it this whole time so you could eat, weren’t you?”

                                            >You stare at the spoon. There are tracks of peanut butter stuck to it by your saliva, and hair from the carpet stuck to those tracks.

                                            Yes, you say with firm conviction. Yes, I was feeling very hungry right now. And nothing else.

                                            >“Well momma’s here now, and she’ll gladly make you some yummy human food.”

                                            >Fluttershy’s face then pinches up and she makes a show of sniffing in your direction.

                                            >“You smell odd today,” she says, with a judgmental look.

                                            >Is she smelling your cum?

                                            >She closes her eyes and inhales deeply some more, quick and rapid smells let out in rhythmic succession.

                                            >“But I think it’s a familiar smell . . .” she says, smacking her lips.

                                            >She’s totally smelling your cum. Damn those horse hooters, those old olfactory instruments!

                                            Of course I smell odd, you say shortly. I haven’t showered in weeks. I’m in a cast and I smell like pee.

                                            >She scrunches her muzzle, and then gives you a probing stare.

                                            >Unperturbed, you say plainly:

                                            Have you ever met someone who was in a cast but didn’t smell like pee?

                                            >She thinks for a second.

                                            >“No,” she says slowly. “No, I guess I haven’t.”

                                            >Knew it. It’s impossible as far as you know.

                                            >Fluttershy shrugs and steps away from you, which gives you good time to catch your breath.

                                            >“So what do you want to eat?” she asks. “If food was your fetish, which food would you most want to rut right now?”

                                            First you smell me, and then you ask me a question like that. You’ve only been here a minute and I already think you’re being weirder than usual.

                                            >“Is me being weird your fetish?”

                                            You wish it was that easy.

                                            >“Did you read the magazines?”

                                            >Even though you were expecting the question, your heart still skips a beat.

                                            No, of course not. I told you to take them back with you when you left, but you didn’t listen to me as usual.

                                            >You were sure she would respond, but instead she’s silent, and worst of all is that she’s standing still by the coffee table, staring down at the magazines.

                                            >She looks at them, and then, with judging eyes, she turns to look at you, followed by her ears folding.

                                            >Worried that she might’ve found out about Giddy Up, you put a harsh front in your voice, saying:

                                            What?

                                            >She doesn’t shrink away, though. She says slowly:

                                            >“Um . . . are you sure that you didn’t read one in particular?”

                                            >Look down and realize she’s talking about the gay one, which you had left on top of the pile.

                                            >Slowly you raise your eyes to Fluttershy, who is looking at you very carefully, as though she were afraid that whatever she would say next would somehow offend you and your newfound delicate sensibilities.

                                            This is a misunderstanding.

                                            >She hums in an unconvinced way.

                                            >Your face begins burning and you realize that you look incredibly flustered and suspicious right now.

                                            No, I’m serious. Okay, yeah, I did read the articles, and they were stupid and I blame you for that. But that’s it.

                                            >“Okay,” she says, raising her hooves defensively. “Okay, I get it. It’s okay. Please don’t be upset. I’ll just go make you something to eat now.”

                                            Yeah, you do that. I didn’t look at your gay porn. Why’d you even buy that stupid magazine anyway?

                                            >Fluttershy walks towards the kitchen, but stops halfway, coming to rest by the arm of the couch.

                                            >With bedroom eyes and a shrewd smile she turns slowly towards you.

                                            What?

                                            >“Nothing,” she says. “But did you know that, if I was born a stallion, my parents said they would’ve named me Butterscotch?”

                                            >She takes a step forward.

                                            >“Do you, um, like that thought at all?”

                                            Get the fuck out, Fluttershy.

                                            >Her ears fold at your harsh words, but her smile stays.

                                            >“You need time,” she says, nodding. “I understand.”

                                            >She walks slowly past you, watching you carefully with anxious eyes, until she reaches the door.

                                            >She doesn’t leave though, just stops. What is she trying to do?

                                            >Then she turns around quickly, trots to the coffee table, grabs the stallion magazine—and jumps back instinctively as though you had tried to grab her from the couch—and runs out the door.

                                            >Later on she brought back the magazine, but with pictures of her head pasted over the faces of every stallion in it.


                                            >You have become addicted to pony porn.

                                            >Or at least, you’ve become addicted to the small stack of pony porn that you have currently.

                                            >The pages have a strange enchantment on you, never failing to make you excited, and you relish the hours when Fluttershy is gone and you can be alone with yourself and with your pictures.

                                            >But now, after a week has passed, the wrinkled pages are starting to turn stale to you.

                                            >The only exciting thing that was in your life is slowly losing both its vigor and the potent intensity that had once stirred so effortlessly your nerve’s glowing embers.

                                            >The desire is still there in you, but the means to grasp it are now old and weak.

                                            >You watch eagerly from the edge of the couch, your heartbeat going quickly and steadily in excited rhythm, the clock on the mantle.

                                            >It’s just above Fluttershy, who is dressed up in black leather with metal studs on it and is dancing suggestively for you.

                                            >She bends forward and shakes her rump, dressed in ass-less chaps, in the air, singing softly:

                                            >~“You can call me Butterscotch.”

                                            >~“And I can be your little twink boyfriend.”

                                            >She actually has a really nice voice.

                                            >You don’t think Fluttershy actually believes you’re gay, though, but she’s certainly been doing a lot gay shit like this ever since she got the idea in her head.

                                            >You have a closet full of dildos of all shapes and sizes and colors now thanks to her, and you don’t know what you’re going to do with them once you’re better.

                                            >Can you recycle them? Or maybe there’s a place you can donate them to, like a charity or something.

                                            >But that’s later. Currently the time is five to the hour.

                                            >Soon she’ll be gone, and you’ll have an hour to complete your oncoming adventure.

                                            >Today you are going to go out of the house, find out where Fluttershy got that pony porn, and then buy enough of it so that you can spend the rest of your time sitting around with this cast on in ecstasy.

                                            >And most importantly, this is a stealth mission.

                                            >You cannot let anyone know about your addiction.

                                            >For if they ever knew, and told Fluttershy, she would then know that you were into ponies and she would never ever leave you alone again, even once this cast is gone.

                                            >“So,” says Fluttershy, turning around and training you with seductive eyes, “do you feel gay for me yet?”

                                            Someone really needs to explain to you how homosexuality works.

                                            >Sighing, she strips her leather outfit off.

                                            >Then, bringing you a jar of peanut butter, she says:

                                            >“Here’s lunch. I have to go for a little while. But will you promise to think of me while I’m gone?”

                                            >Putting down the peanut butter and thinking of the mission at hand, you say:

                                            For once, Fluttershy, I can promise that I will think about you.

                                            >“Yay! It must’ve been the leather that did it for you, right?”

                                            You can go now.

                                            >She leaves. You wait for a minute, just to make sure she’s really gone.

                                            >Then, reaching over the arm of your couch, you pick up your crutches and, using them as support, lift yourself up of the couch with your wobbly arms.

                                            >For the first time in weeks, your back meets air, and you can feel the wretched stink of your sour unwashed body crawling in your nose.

                                            >Lifting your cast foot and keeping it up at an angle, you stick up the crutches underneath your shoulders and you hobble your way over to the mantle so you can grab your wallet.

                                            >You reach for the wallet, and the crutch falls out from under your raised arm.

                                            >Holding onto the other for balance, you bend down with your one good leg to pick it up, and the other crutch slips out of your hand.

                                            >Trying to grab it in midair, you fall backwards onto the floor with a hollow thud.

                                            >Your head buzzing, you decide to just stare up at the ceiling for a while before you try to get up and get yourself killed again.

                                            >The doctor told you that you had to practice using your crutches so it’d be easier for you to move around, but of course you never did do that.

                                            >Now you’re going to have to use them to move yourself around town, possibly all over town, to find something you can ask no one about and somehow get back to the house, all in under an hour.

                                            If this was for anything less than porn, I’d have to give up right about now.

                                            >You crawl your way up, brining your crutches with you, pull down your wallet, and then hobble over to your door, stumbling back when you do finally manage to open it.

                                            >After crossing the threshold and closing the door behind you, you turn to meet your nemesis: the stairs.

                                            >They’re old wooden stairs, rough looking, with the browned nails visible on the surface, and with the kind of downward slope at the lip of them that comes with years of being stepped and pushed off on.

                                            >Even without a cast on your foot, they feel like the kind of stairs that can slip out from under you.

                                            >Very carefully, you step with your crutches down the stairs, taking them one at a time: one: two: three times and done.

                                            >Breathing a sigh of relief, you start hobbling down the road to Main Street, swaying on your awkward crutches and moving in neutral alongside the swift and deft legs of the ponies passing you by.

                                            >Looking up you see, hanging over a couple rows of roofs, the crystal star of Twilight’s castle silhouetted in the sky against the white sun.

                                            >You have to know exactly where it is you’re going to get this porn if you want to make it back in time, and maybe Twilight can help with that.

                                            >It takes you nearly ten minutes to travel the two blocks necessary, and you’re sweating all over your face and down your collar by the time you find Twilight.

                                            >She’s standing at the top of her own front steps.

                                            Hey, Twilight.

                                            >“Hello,” she says. “It’s good to see you out and about for a change.”

                                            >You stand at the foot of her steps, waiting. Eventually she comes down herself to meet you.

                                            >“So what brings you outside?”

                                            >Now just how exactly does someone go about asking their friend where the nearest place to get porn is, without letting on that you actually want to get porn?

                                            Twilight, I was wondering if you knew where Fluttershy got all of her, well, I guess you’d call them gifts, for me.

                                            >Twilight loses her smile and looks at you oddly. You act oblivious and continue:

                                            Is there a store in town, or what?

                                            >“Yeah . . .” she says slowly, looking away from you.

                                            Do you know it?

                                            >“I’ve never been there personally,” she says, shifting her weight uneasily between her legs. “But it’s called Blazing Saddles. And I only know that because of Fluttershy.”

                                            Great. Where is that exactly?

                                            >“Well,” she says, “I’ll tell you—because Fluttershy told me once and I just happen to know it. But first I want to know—you don’t like ponies, I thought. Why do you want to go there?”

                                            >You’ve entered the minefield now.

                                            >You can’t let Twilight, or any of Fluttershy’s friends really, know that you want to get porn because they’ll definitely feel inclined to tell her about that.

                                            >You need an excuse.

                                            Twilight, Fluttershy’s recently got it in her mind that I’m gay, or bisexual, or something or other.

                                            >“Oh,” Twilight says, folding her ears. “. . . Okay then.”

                                            So I’ve got all these dildos she’s given me, and I don’t know what to do with them. I thought I’d return them to wherever she got them and get some cash back.

                                            >“I don’t mean to judge,” she says, “but isn’t it kind of rude to treat somepony’s gift that way?”

                                            Well, if you really feel that way I could always give them to you.

                                            >Twilight scrunches her muzzle.

                                            Or maybe I should just return them.

                                            >“Well wait a second here,” she says, raising an eyebrow at you. “Fluttershy included the receipts with her gifts?”

                                            >You have no idea, but you lie.

                                            Yeah. She did.

                                            >Twilight hums in a certain way.

                                            >After a while, she says:

                                            >“Anyway, I’ll tell you where Blazing Saddles is.”

                                            >She tells you, and it’s only about four blocks away from where you are.

                                            >In your present state, it should only take you a couple hours to get there and back to your house—so you’re fucked.

                                            Goddammit, you mutter as you hobble along down the road as fast as you can.

                                            >You’re not going to make it back in time at this rate, and Fluttershy will want to know why you left at all if she catches you.

                                            >You could lie to her, though.

                                            >If she catches you, you could just hide the porn somewhere and tell her that you got abducted by aliens after she left.

                                            >She might believe that. She’s pretty gullible, and you are an alien yourself here after all.

                                            >Then again if you do go with that, she’s going to want to know all about the experiments, like whether they probed you or not.

                                            >And you can’t lie and say that you weren’t experimented on when you were abducted. No one would believe that.

                                            Fucking aliens.

                                            >“What was that?”

                                            >You turn and see Applejack, who is regarding you warily.

                                            I was just thinking about something.

                                            >“Uh huh,” she says. “To yourself?”

                                            Yeah.

                                            >“Out loud?”

                                            I guess so.

                                            >“No offense,” she says, “but I think maybe spending all of your time cooped up inside, with Fluttershy as your only company, isn’t doing you right.”

                                            >She awkwardly tips her hat to you.

                                            >“But it’s nice to see you outside,” she says in parting.

                                            >She goes down an alleyway and approaches an empty long wood cart, and then starts hitching herself up to it.

                                            Hey, Applejack! you say, hobbling quickly in her direction.

                                            >Later you’re lying in the back of her cart, taking in the bumps and humps of the road as they beat your head against the wood.

                                            >“Boy, you’re heavy,” Applejack wheezes from up front. “Having you in this cart is like bringing in a dozen barrels of apples.”

                                            Yeah, I might’ve put on a few extra pounds.

                                            >“Tons, you mean. What is Fluttershy feeding you?”

                                            I think I’ve eaten my body weight in peanut butter over these past few weeks.

                                            >Sitting up, you watch the street until, noticing a dark wooden sign hanging out front of a store that says Blazing Saddles, you ask Applejack to stop the cart.

                                            >You look closer at the sign.

                                            >It has two ponies in silhouette, a mare and a stallion, facing away from each other but kept close together by their tails, which are intertwined with each other.

                                            >The windows are curtained, but there’s a sign on the door that says they’re open and that no children are allowed inside.

                                            Applejack, this is my stop.

                                            >You scoot yourself off of the cart, feeling good about how much time getting this ride has saved you.

                                            >Then you notice that Applejack is looking over her shoulder at you strangely.

                                            >“Hang on a sec here.”

                                            >Pointing towards Blazing Saddles with her eyes, she asks:

                                            >“Are you going in there?”

                                            >You groan inwardly.

                                            Kind of.

                                            >“Blazing Saddles,” she says to herself; then, to you, with near amazement, “You and Blazing Saddles?”

                                            Look, it’s not what you think.

                                            >You try to explain to Applejack that you just want to return some of Fluttershy’s gifts to you.

                                            >Applejack listens to you, seemingly without judgement, but her face is rigidly plain and the short words she does say, to show you she’s listening, have undertones of distraction that sink in your ears.

                                            >You can’t see it, but you think that she’s smirking at you inside.

                                            >Moreover, you feel she’s trying to repress some kind of emotional reaction that wants to spill out from her mind and be seen and heard.

                                            >Finally, when you stop speaking, she asks, with clear hint of restraint in her voice:

                                            >“So, uh, have you ever actually been in Blazing Saddles before?”

                                            >You answer slowly:

                                            No, I haven’t.

                                            >“Uh huh,” she says, eager sounding. “And has Fluttershy ever told you about—”

                                            >Applejack, trying to hold back laughter all of a sudden, snorts involuntarily before blocking her mouth with her hoof.

                                            >So hard she’s suppressing her outburst that you can see the slight trembling of the bones in her chest.

                                            What is it? What’s so fucking funny?

                                            >“Nothing,” Applejack says, doubled over and waving a dismissive hoof your way. “I mean you’ll find out, sugar cube.”

                                            Find out what?

                                            >“Have a good time in Blazing Saddles.”

                                            >She looks from you to the sign again, and then her high laughter begins bucking around in the air and she trots quickly away with the cart.

                                            >Annoyed in thought, you watch the empty street where she went for a little while.

                                            >What the heck was that all about? Why was she laughing? Has she been in there before? What does she know that you don’t?

                                            Fucking Applejack.

                                            >You look again at the sign, feeling confused, a bit anxious, and almost reluctant to enter now.

                                            Then again, I am already here.

                                            >There’s no need to feel awkward. You just have to remember that you’re another customer to them, nothing more.

                                            >Just act inconspicuous.

                                            >You pull the door open and try to come in swiftly, but it slams into you halfway, pinning you between it and the frame.

                                            >Then, pulling yourself and your clattering crutches through, you come up too quickly and hit your head hollowly on the ceiling.

                                            >Rubbing the back of your bowed head, you peek out from under your brow and take survey of the rows of shelved boxes, all long and laying vertically, all with long colorful objects imaged lengthwise on their sides.

                                            >There are mannequins around the store, all of them dressed in revealing outfits made from materials ranging from leather to feathers to the smoothest softly-colored see-through silk.

                                            >The lights are not dim, as you thought they would be, and the walls are the color that oozing ketchup has in fast food advertisements.

                                            >Any shameful atmosphere that you imagined would have permeated the air here, like dust in an empty attic, and which you feared would have inhibited you in your quest was trounced by the feelings of familiarity from that shopping instinct—of the neatness and invitingness of the clearly displayed product that your eye had been trained to see for years—awakening and taking over your brain.

                                            >Now if only the few ponies that were in here with you would stop staring at you, you’d be aces.

                                            >You hobble self-consciously up to the counter, taking stock of the rows of videos resting on metal floor shelves on the way.

                                            >Just then, coming out from a cover of beads hanging in front of the entrance to a room in the back, was a stout brown stallion with a quick, showy step.

                                            >His chestnut mane is long and braided, resting on his shoulder, and above his thin goatee he’s wearing cheap light-gold sunglasses with honey-colored lenses.

                                            >Looking down at the floor as though he was deep in thought, he moves quickly to the counter and ducks under it, seemingly ignoring you.

                                            >You can hear him muttering about something under his breath.

                                            Um, excuse me, sir?

                                            >“Yeah, I’ll be right with you,” he says. “You know what you want?”

                                            Kind of.

                                            >He sniffs shortly, and rises above the counter for a quick look at you.

                                            >Then he goes back down before, following a large wooden thud from his head jumping up from under, he rises again, welt-headed, to peer shocked over his glasses at you.

                                            >“I know you!” he says, smiling suddenly.

                                            >You watch frozenly as, with sudden personal animation, he trots round the front desk and, peeling your hand off of one of your crutches, begins shaking vigorously your limp wrist with his formal hoof (that you don’t know where has just been).

                                            >Yeah, you don’t know this guy, but thanks to him you can feel that those ponies that were staring at you earlier are definitely doing so again.

                                            >There are certainly those in this universe who can seek out their porn in peace, but it seems as though that will just never get to be your destiny in this lifetime.

                                            I don’t think we’ve met before.

                                            >“Well I don’t know you know you, you know?” he says. “But I’ve heard all about you before.”

                                            You have?

                                            >“Oh yeah,” he says flippantly. “Tons of times.”

                                            >He lets go of your hand and knocks one of your crutches lightly.

                                            >“I know how you got injured,” he says. “I heard the whole story right after it happened.”

                                            >These words enter your perplexed mind and slowly the lead of the store keeper’s loutish familiarity knocks a rude reality into view of your brow, wrinkling in frustration.

                                            Fucking Fluttershy, you say to yourself.

                                            >“Our best customer,” says the stallion. “She’s the one that told me you were chasing after her. And how, after you broke your ankle, she carried you all the way to the hospital.”

                                            >Well actually you limped, sometimes crawled, for six blocks, and Fluttershy wouldn’t stop crying and fretting over you the entire time, right in your ear too.

                                            >She did try to grab you a couple times, so she could help support you while you limped, but she kept touching you in places off limits whenever she felt you were slipping out of her grasp, which was often.

                                            >You didn’t even reach the hospital until it was dawn and your ankle had swelled to the size and color of an overripe grapefruit.

                                            >“Yeah, she’s a great girl,” he says.

                                            >He looks admiringly up at you.

                                            >“Your life sounds wild, my man.”

                                            You can have it.

                                            >Ignoring this, he goes back behind the counter.

                                            >“So what can I do for you, my man?”

                                            >Leaning forward, you say secretively:

                                            I was hoping to buy some magazines.

                                            >“Well we certainly got porn of all kinds here,” he says, with a voice happy and indiscrete in volume.

                                            >As he smiles at you so helpfully, you suppress the urge to wince and smile, too, forcedly.

                                            That’s good. I’d like to see some.

                                            >“Got you covered, my man. Just give me one second.”

                                            >He moves quickly past the rattling beads, and you watch hoping he’ll come back and actually ask you what you want this time.

                                            >You hear someone approach the counter, stopping in your blind spot.

                                            >Looking slightly round your shoulder, you see next to you a silver earth pony, with violet eyes and a black ballpoint pen cutie mark, waiting patiently next to you.

                                            >She’s got something from here under her arm, but she catches you trying to peek at it.

                                            >“Hello,” she says politely.

                                            Hi there, you say pretending that the exchange of pleasantries was what you were after.

                                            >Turning back round to end it, she interrupts:

                                            >“Isn’t this a nice place?”

                                            I guess. Sure.

                                            >She giggles silently and turns her head to regard you shrewdly.

                                            >“You don’t come here often, do you?”

                                            >Is this the general direction that all small talk done between customers in sex shops goes?

                                            >The beads rattle. You look forward.

                                            >“My man, I just got the newest of your favorite in today,” says the stallion, slapping the stapled paper down on the counter.

                                            >You recognize the title of Stable Stud instantly.

                                            >“Oh, good choice,” says the mare.

                                            That is not my favorite, you say to the stallion severely.

                                            >“Hey, no worries,” he says, still smiling, as he moves the magazine below the counter. “I’ll take care of you, as soon as I help the lady behind you.”

                                            >“What a gentlecolt,” the mare says, stepping forward. “Cause I got a meeting in thirty that I need to start preparing for.”

                                            >He rings her up, she runs her card, and soon she leaves, her brand new anal vibrator still boxed under her arm.

                                            >She could’ve got a bag, too, but chose not to.

                                            >“Yeah, she’s crazy about anal and wants the whole world to know it,” he says. “My kind of mare.”

                                            Wonderful, you say ironically. Oh, and I’m not gay, by the way. I just want some good old, regular, mare-centered pony porn.

                                            >“We got that in all shapes, sizes, styles and series, my man. Anything you want in particular?”

                                            Giddy Up, friendo.

                                            >He goes in back and eventually returns with three different copies of the promised gold you desire, one of them being brand new.

                                            >He goes on at length about them as he rings you up, saying which issues he considers to be classics and which weren’t very good and etc.

                                            >“You’re all set then,” he says, after you pay.

                                            >Gathering them up in a pile, he slides the three magazines across the counter to you.

                                            Yeah, I don’t really want anyone to see me with these.

                                            >“Don’t worry,” he says. “We got non-distinguished black plastic bags for that.”

                                            >After bagging your magazines, he gives you the bag, saying:

                                            >“Hey, I hope you come in again sometime. The rest of the staff would totally love to actually meet you for a change, rather than hear about you.”

                                            That reminds me, Fluttershy can’t know that I was in here today.

                                            >“Consider it done. I know all about you and your relationship with Fluttershy, my man.”

                                            Yeah, I don’t think you do. I’m not in a relationship with that crazy girl.

                                            >“I totally got you,” he says, winking conspiratorially. “Now roll on out of here, my man, cause she could literally come in through that door any minute.

                                            >You look at him unbelievably for a while before, heading for the door, you say:

                                            I still don’t think you get it.

                                            >After much struggling, you and your crutches manage to escape the jaws of Blazing Saddles, and its heavy door.

                                            >You start down the road to home.

                                            It’ll be a close call, but I think I can make it before Fluttershy gets back just as long as I don’t stop.

                                            >As you round the corner, you bump into Pinkie Pie.

                                            Goddammit.

                                            >“Hi!” she says. “It’s so nice to see you outside.”

                                            You’re the third pony that’s said that to me today.

                                            >“Oh, does that mean I get a prize? Is it in that non-distinguished black plastic bag?”

                                            No.

                                            >Try to step past her, but she keeps moving in front of you with her Goddamn fully-functional and uninjured legs of hers.

                                            >“So did you go shopping? What’s in the bag? Is it a surprise? Or is it a secret?”

                                            Pinkie, would you please move. I have to get home right away.

                                            >She stops moving and sits down on her rump, a look of realization settling in.

                                            >Then, giggling and snorting at herself, she says:

                                            >“Oh, I’m totally in your way, aren’t I? Here, let me just . . .”

                                            >She sidesteps, clearing the path for you, and waves you by with her hoof as you pass her.

                                            >Then, she joins you at your heel.

                                            >“We can walk and talk. How’s that?”

                                            Fine. As long as you don’t ask—

                                            >“So, what’s in the bag?”

                                            Pinkie. Stop.

                                            >“Oh come on. Please, please, please tell me.”

                                            I can’t do it.

                                            >“Why not?”

                                            Because no one can know what’s in it.

                                            >“Ah-ha! I was right. It is a secret.”

                                            >You don’t respond.

                                            >It takes you five minutes out of the twenty you have left just to reach the end of this street.

                                            >You’re out of breath, and you still got five blocks left to go.

                                            >“You know, you can totally tell me what’s in that bag, and I’ll Pinkie Promise not to tell anypony else.”

                                            >You start hobbling faster. Pinkie has to trot lightly to keep up with you.

                                            >“Okay, how about this. We’ll play a game, and if I win, then you have to tell me what’s in the bag.”

                                            All right, Pinkie, I’ve got a game for you. Go get me something to drink.

                                            >That ought to get rid of her for a while.

                                            >“Done.”

                                            >You look and see that Pinkie’s brought her pink water bottle out.

                                            >“It’s full of slushy lemonade,” she says, shaking it so that it sloshes inside. “Do you want some?”

                                            >You nod and, from then on, Pinkie occasionally will run up in front of you and, with both of you still moving, let you drink some of her lemonade out of what must still be the longest and silliest Silly Straw you ever saw.

                                            >“But that’s not really a game,” she says. “That’s okay though, cause I just thought of one we can play.”

                                            What’s that?

                                            >“My favorite travelling game,” she says, beaming. “It’s called Twenty Thousand Questions.”

                                            >You shudder upon hearing the name, but put on a brave face for the sake of the pornography and for your quest.

                                            I’m ready.

                                            >“Great!” she says. “Thanks a bunch. Gummy is usually the only one who will play this game with me.”

                                            No kidding.

                                            >“Okay, first question,” she says. “Is there a bottle of warm apple juice in the bag, or does it just smell like pee around here to me?”

                                            >That reminds you of something.

                                            Pinkie, do Applejack and Fluttershy share any hobbies?

                                            >“They like camping together,” she says. “Oh, and they both love to buy sexy kinds of stuff at Blazing Saddles.”

                                            >So that’s why she laughed at you earlier. That kinky cowgirl is a regular there!

                                            >“I thought it was going to be Rarity she shared that with,” she says. “Took me off guard, I’ll tell you that.”

                                            >Refocusing, she says:

                                            >“Now my next question . . .”

                                            >You instinctively pick up speed.

                                            >Eventually, with no time to spare, you manage to make it to your house.

                                            >By then you’re sweating into your eyes, and underneath your clothes everywhere it was swamping.

                                            >Huffing, puffing, and with sore arms, you take those dreaded stairs slowly—Pinkie’s voice still droning in your ear and upsetting your equilibrium as you sway in her storm of questions.

                                            >“Done!” she says.

                                            >You reach the top step and turn around to her.

                                            >“I asked you twenty thousand questions, just like I was supposed to.”

                                            >Pinkie looks up at you and, patiently smiling, waits for appropriate response.

                                            >You blink away dripping stinging salt water.

                                            None of them were correct, probably.

                                            >“Oh come on!” she says, assuming a beggars stance. “Please tell me. We played the game and everything.”

                                            Pinkie.

                                            >“Yes,” she says hopefully.

                                            >You sigh, and then reach out and poke her on the end of her snout with your finger, making her scrunch her muzzle.

                                            You’re it, Pinkie. No tag backs.

                                            >She stares blankly at you.

                                            >Then, her entire body trembling slightly, she screams in frustration, pulls down on her cheeks with her front hooves, and says:

                                            >“Thanks a lot! Now I have to start another tag war. And this one’ll probably last two years this time.”

                                            >She trots down the stairs, groaning loudly the entire time, so she can find some other pony to tag, you think.

                                            >Now if only Fluttershy was that easy to get rid of.

                                            >You go inside and shut the door behind you.

                                            >Then, leaning back on it, you revel in your victory, smiling in triumph, until you feel a knocking on your door.

                                            >You leap off of the door and accidently drop your bag, where it falls to the side, just out of sight.

                                            >Before you can worry about picking it up though, you hear another knock.

                                            >Whoever is outside, they’re not letting themselves in. Must not be Fluttershy.

                                            >You open the door and are relieved to see Twilight.

                                            Hey, Twilight. What’s up?

                                            >“Fluttershy doesn’t keep a record of her receipts listing any small purchases.”

                                            >She looks at you firmly, letting her words sink in.

                                            >You think she wants you to feel exposed, but for what you aren’t sure.

                                            Excuse me?

                                            >“Fluttershy doesn’t keep her receipts from Blazing Saddles,” she says. “Which means that either she’s made an exception for your gifts, or you lied to me.”

                                            Hold on, Twilight. How do you know all this?

                                            >“I do her taxes for her,” she says. “I do all my friends’ taxes for them.”

                                            What? Why do you let them take advantage of you like that?

                                            >“I do them because I like to do taxes,” she says, glaring at you. “Doing taxes is fun.”

                                            Calm down. Why are you so upset?

                                            >“Because you lied to me!”

                                            >“Is that true?” says Fluttershy, walking up the stairs and meeting you both. “Did he lie to you, Twilight?”

                                            >In your life you’ve never wanted to spontaneously combust more than you did at that moment.

                                            I only lied about a small thing. It’s really none of your business, Fluttershy.

                                            >“None of her business!” Twilight exclaims. “She’s the whole reason you lied to me.”

                                            >“I am?” Fluttershy says anxiously.

                                            >“Don’t you feel bad,” Twilight says to her. “It’s not your fault.”

                                            >“It’s not?”

                                            No, Twilight’s full of shit. If you never bought me those stupid gifts—

                                            >“I’m what!”

                                            >“Oh, please somepony tell me what’s going on?”

                                            >Twilight points at you.

                                            >“He went to Blazing Saddles to return all the gifts you got him recently.”

                                            Twilight!

                                            >“Which definitely is rude, by the way,” Twilight says. “I looked it up in Canterlot’s establish manners guidebook, just to make sure.”

                                            >Fluttershy turns to you with amazement.

                                            >“You went to Blazing Saddles?”

                                            >From across the street, Applejack, coming back from a delivery, stops pulling her cart and yells:

                                            >“Hey, ask him whether or not he was a big hit at Blazing Saddles.”

                                            Dammit, Applejack! Why don’t you go laugh your ass off some more somewhere else!

                                            >Applejack stomps on the ground with her front hoof repeatedly and loses herself in whinnying laughter.

                                            >“You went to Blazing Saddles?” Fluttershy repeats.

                                            Not on your life.

                                            >“Oh, so now Applejack is lying too?” Twilight says sarcastically.

                                            >“I doubt it,” says Pinkie, who squeezes herself between her two friends until they make room for her. “Element of honesty and all.”

                                            >“Ask him if he bought anything,” Applejack says.

                                            >“He did buy something,” Pinkie says. “I’ve been trying to guess what it is for, like, the last half hour.”

                                            >“You bought something at Blazing Saddles?” Fluttershy asks, lifting herself slightly in the air in excitement.

                                            No, I did not buy something from Blazing Saddles. Fuck you, Applejack. And fuck you too, Pinkie.

                                            >“Don’t talk to them that way,” Twilight says. “You’re the one that’s been lying.”

                                            Fuck you, Twilight.

                                            >“Hey!”

                                            >“I played the game fair and square,” Pinkie says. “I just want to see what’s in the bag.”

                                            >Pinkie tries to get past you multiple times, but you keep blocking her with your crutches.

                                            >“Pinkie,” says Fluttershy, “was this bag a non-distinguishable black plastic bag?”

                                            >“Sure was,” Pinkie says. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

                                            >Fluttershy, now smiling so happily that you know nothing you can say for now will make it go away, looks up at you in a certain way.

                                            >“Everypony,” she announces, “I’d like you all to call me Butterscotch from now on, if that’s okay with you all.”

                                            Goddammit, it is not gay porn!

                                            >You push Pinkie back and then start swinging one of your crutches around like a club, driving the three ponies down the stairs.

                                            Get back, all of you! You fucking ponies, I’m not going to let any of you ruin my life any more than you already have!

                                            >Twilight, looking at you severely, grabs the crutch mid-swing with her magic.

                                            >Just then Pinkie tries to scramble up the stairs and past your feet.

                                            >You let go of the crutch and stop Pinkie with your hand, just in time for Fluttershy to try to fly past you.

                                            >Balancing yourself carefully, you lift up your crutch.

                                            I’ve been looking for an excuse to hit you with these crutches ever since I got them.

                                            >Fluttershy, stopping in midair, freezes up, her face pinched in anticipation.

                                            >You bring the crutch down, and just then Pinkie leaps up from your hand and, grabbing Fluttershy, throws them both to safety.

                                            >“Tag!”

                                            >You slice through thin air. The crutch flies free out your hand and the momentum brings your body down.

                                            >You remember the stairs zooming towards you, and the sound of two audible dry cracks, like twigs snapping.

                                            >When you open your eyes, you’re lying face up on the ground.

                                            >You can see the sky, and eventually concerned faces start peering down at you.

                                            >“He’s going to have to go to the hospital,” you hear Twilight say.

                                            >“I’ll get him on the cart,” Applejack says. “And Pinkie, stop trying to start another tag war. It got way out of control last time.”

                                            >“I didn’t start it!” Pinkie says.

                                            >“Don’t worry,” Fluttershy says, while softly stroking the side of your face. “You’re going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

                                            >“Stop feeding him nothing but peanut butter for starters,” Applejack says. “Unless you want to be the pony that has to carry him on this cart.”

                                            >“Woah,” a familiar voice says.

                                            >A pair of light-gold sunglasses peers down at you, and the ponytail of these glasses sticks in your face and brushes lightly with its greasy strands your forehead.

                                            >“Is our man here going to be alright, Fluttershy? Oh, here, he forgot to grab his receipt before he left.”

                                            >Fluttershy looks at the receipt, and somehow the strong smile she had before has come back, and it’s bright and wide as the morning sun’s light stretching out across the horizon.

                                            >Pinkie looks over Fluttershy’s shoulder.

                                            >“Straight porn!” she exclaims. “Shoot. My very last guess when we were playing, and I went with my first choice and chose gay porn.”


                                            >You’re sitting on your couch again. Fluttershy is sat next to you, watching you calmly.

                                            Peanut butter.

                                            >Taking your spoon in her mouth, she bends down, sticks the spoon in the jar between her legs, and scoops up some peanut butter with it.

                                            >She picks up the sticky spoon, with the brown lump stuck on it, and, leaning forward, sticks it in your face for you to take in your mouth.

                                            >Without looking at her, you turn slightly, take sweet dollop in your mouth and pull it in with your teeth, pulling away.

                                            >Fluttershy drops the spoon back in the jar and happily watches you work your sweet brown sticky mouth.

                                            Got an itch under my cast.

                                            >Fluttershy reaches for a plastic coffee stirrer from the package of them on the coffee table.

                                            >“Okay,” she says, holding the stirrer in her mouth. “Which one?”

                                            Top of the left hand.

                                            >You hold one of your cast hands out past her.

                                            >She gets the coffee stirrer between the skin and the hard mold and moves it pinched up and down the length of your hand.

                                            >When you say that you feel better, she pulls it out and tosses it onto the table before returning to you her attention.

                                            >“How’s the other hand?”

                                            Fine.

                                            >“Anything else?”

                                            Yeah, one more thing.

                                            >You nod forward.

                                            Turn the page. I’m sick of this one.

                                            >Nodding, she leans across the couch from her seat and stretches over you so she can reach the music stand at your feet.

                                            >She licks her hoof and turns carefully the page of the magazine displayed on the stand for you.

                                            >A familiar body, fond of riding crops, is seen on the next page.

                                            >Fluttershy stops halfway on her return to her seat and rests her cheek against the side of your arm.

                                            >“So, do you feel like masturbating yet?”

                                            No.

                                            >You look dully at the picture and at Fluttershy’s head, which has been pasted over the model’s.

                                            No, I don’t want to.

                                            >“Well, you just let me know when you feel like it,” Fluttershy says, grazing lightly her hoof against your thigh. “And I’ll help you out.”

                                            Turn the page.

                                            >She does so, and reaches the end of the magazine.

                                            >“What do you want to do next?”

                                            Don’t you have to go take care of your animals soon?

                                            >“We can look at another magazine before I have to do that.”

                                            I guess.

                                            >Fluttershy eagerly gets up off the couch and walks to the end of the table where piled are dozens of boxes.

                                            >She reaches into one opened and pulls out another magazine.

                                            >She presses it close to her chest and flies to the stand to move the old magazine and place excitedly this new one down.

                                            >“I think you’ll like this one,” she says. “I took all sorts of pictures of myself for it.”

                                            >You sigh and sink into the couch.

                                            >It’s going to be another very long day of doing nothing but looking at pony porn again.