You awake late one afternoon to find that by some inexplicable means, you have been transformed into a pony.
Not just any pony, but your OC. There is no mistaking it; the colors of your fur and mane are just like you always imagined them, and even the little details you used to fantasize about are all where they should be.
You are a downright adorable little earth poner. 
As soon as the sun sets you are outside, ready to test your new body.
Who cares that you don't have wings or a magic horn? Everything you've seen points to pegasusfags being a bunch of masochistic subs who mainly want their wings to explicitly not use them. Hell, most of these degenerates would probably be happy to break them for their 'master' if he asked.
And wannabe unicorns? A bunch of snobby assholes with a god complex and delusions of grandeur. Would probably kill themselves if they lost their magic. Scratch that, will probably kill themselves eventually without ever tasting the sweet power they crave, because as far as you know, you are the only one affected by whatever caused your mysterious transformation. 
Perhaps it is you who got what you wanted precisely because you aspired to be nothing more than a humble earth pony?
The meek shall inherit, and all that.
The clippity-cloppity of your cute widdle hoofsie-whoovsies on the slightly wet asphalt is all you could have asked for.
"PPRRÖÖÖÖÖTT!!!"
What the hell is this? An elephant?
It's worse.
An eighteenwheeler, dozens of tons of metal and fuel guzzling American engineering, is bearing down on you.
You are almost blinded by the vehicle's lights, but you can still make out the rebel flag hanging behind the MAGA hat wearing silhouette of the driver as he seems to accelerate his mechanical monster. The dark clouds billowing from his exhausts look like something from Greta Thunberg's fevered nightmares.
Who would have thought that your taste would come to haunt you so quickly?
A pegasus, no matter how submissive, could easily swing themselves up into the sky to avoid the grinding tires. The magic of an unicorn could devise all manner of tricks to get out of the situation intact.
Even a zebra, or zigger as you like to call them, could probably conjure up some voodoo-hoodoo bullshit to save themselves.
Not you, though.
By the time you start to move, it is clear that you won't make it off the street in time. The road is slippery and you lose your footing more than once.
"Rosebud," you whisper.
Might as well get one last dated reference in before you shuffle off this mortal coil.
The rolling monument to the CSA and Zionism connects.
Brief flash.
Loud noise.
Darkness.
Piece of roadkill splattered over a hundred-odd yards.
Exit stage left.