Pinkie won't leave Anon Alone (even though he hates her)

  >Wake up
    >The sun is too bright.
    >The birds sing too loudly
    >The grass is too green
    >The ponies are too color-schemes.
    >Just make it through the day. Just let you keep your mind intact long enough to be tired again and fall asleep and embrace sweet-sweet oblivion for another eleven hours.
    >Just as long as she doesn't try to-
    *knock knock*
    >"NO GO AWAY!"
    "But Anon! Today you promised to help me trim streamers!"
    >"I said I'll trim my jugular wide open if you bothered me again!"
    >Where the hell is your knife. That's it. You're killing yourself.
    >You can hear Pinkie Pie hop up and down on your porch.
    "Oooh, you have a jug-of-what now? Is it punch? Is it grape juice? Or mango juice? You can bring it to the party, everyone will love it!"
    >"Tell them to love my cold dead corpse."
    "But I already have popsicles."
    >Your house shakes from you tossing yourself down a flight of stairs in a vain fit of hope that it would kill you, which it doesn't.
    >The excruciating pain is little compensation.



>Pinkie lets herself in.
>You don't bother to lock your door anymore. She wriggles her way through any way you could bar it anyhow. And a small part of you hopes that some murders psychopath will steal into your home at night and put you out of your misery.
>But this is not a land of such mercies.
>Pinkie sits next to your mangled body.
"Practicing for the Twister game, huh? Looks pretty intense, you just might win first place!"
>she leans in next to your head.
"But keep an eye out for Rarity. She does yoooooggaaaa."
>You start to untangle yourself, harboring mixed feelings over the complete lack of broken bones.
>"Can we play russian roulette instead?" Pinkie looks upwards and gums her lips.
"Um. Haven't heard of that one, how do you win?"
>"I'll show you, just let me play a round by myself."
"Games aren't any fun if you're playing by yourself!"
>"No one plays russian roulette to have fun."
>She gives a snorting giggle and hops up and down at the base of the stairs.
"We'll have to come up with a different game then. We're only going to have fun at this party."
>She laughs at the idea of personal bubbles and presses right up against your nose.
"And yes, that includes you."
>She knows you hate her parties. She knows you hate her.
>"I hate you."
"I know."
>See?


>You stand up and work the cracks out of your spine. You go to close the front door before too much fresh equestrian air gets in and taints your lungs.
>The door is shut. You place your hands against the frame and stare into the floorboards expectantly.
>The floorboards can only stare back in a way that asks what the hell you want from them.
>You look at the wall instead, but it simply stands there in a way that seriously suggests that it just wants to ignore you.
>Pinkie opens up a window. You close it. She opens the door.
>The wall is laughing at you, you can tell.
"Pinkie."
>"Anon."
"What do you want?"
>She lifts her head and smiles brightly enough to stagger a blind man.
"To help me make decorations of course!"
>She pulls a bag out of a nowhere and slams it onto your coffee table.
>This is your day now.



>This is ALL your days.
>You just want to lock yourself in your house and wait for the freedom of death from this watercolored purgatory you find yourself in
>But no. She conspires against you. She gets you outside by her coercion and twisted, sugary machinations. Piping encouragements and gentle ribbing, giggling and bouncing all around you like living rubber.
>She tries to -jolly you along-
>You wish she'd jolly herself to hell.
>You dug yourself a hole about a month ago, and tried to bury yourself alive.
>You designed a coffin and stocked it with a pillow and a bottle of cider to ease the stress of slow suffocation. With some clever engineering you sucessfully piled ten feet of dirt over your head and awaited destiny.
>However the coffin became very cramped when the pink voodoo witch popped up inside there.
>She turned the damn thing into a slumber party.
>The others found you ten hours later, drawn by the sound her singing and you screaming and banging against the lid, shouting about why the hell does air take so long to run out around here.


>So that idea didn't pan out.
>The other p0nies don't try to impose themselves on you anyway. You've systematically alienated each and every one of them.
>Well, you just sorta growled at them or gave them the stink-eye whenever they spoke to you. That did the job well enough.
"Anon, those are safety scissors, you can't cut yourself with those."
>You stare dulled-dagger eyes at pinkie and mutter "Let me have my dreams." in a voice that sounds like torn sandpaper
>She sighs and goes back to cutting hearts and smiley faces out of purple construction paper.
>You start to absentmindedly cut shapes into your own sheets, pretending the sound of shearing paper is actually the screams of pinkie burning in a pyre of vengeance.
>It wasn't the best substitute.
"Anon."
>"___"
"You can talk in underlines all you want, but that's not gonna make me go away."
>"-------"
"Neither are those."
>"Fine." She smiles again.
"That's better!"

"I made some lemonade."
>She pulls out a pitcher of her damn lemonade and pours herself a glass. She sets one before you.
"Go ahead, have a glass!"
>You raise the pitcher and carefully pour the lemonade into the glass right up to the rim. You set the pitcher down, raise your cup carefully up to your lips before throwing it at the wall over your shoulder.
>"No thank-you."
>She pulls out another glass.
>You throw that one too. She smirks.
"You know that was one of your cups, right?"
>"Dammit." You only have three cups in your house.
"If you come to my party tonight, you can have one of mine.
>"It's not as though I have a choice." She looks only slightly guilty.
"Noooo...."
>The sound of cutting construction paper weighs heavily on tense silence.
"What mind-numbingly retarded thing are you celebrating today? What horrible thing here can you possibly find worthy of glorification?"
>She pulls out a bottle of glue and smears it over her cut-outs.
"Oh. You."
>You want to steal the glue from her and huff it until you have sufficient brain damage.
>"Me?"
"Yup."
>"The horrible thing you want to celebrate-"
"Is you."
>The walls laugh at you again.


>You set down the safety scissors.
>You could try to stab her with them, but you know she'll just call it tag, and completely outlcass you at it.
>"I'm not going to ask why, but I'm going to ask why." Her hair jiggles as your statement tickles her with its contradictory fingers.
"Well, if some grumpalumpagus was paying attention to his calender."
>You didn't even know they kept a damn calender here.
"Then you would know today's your one-year anniversary!"
>You sit back on your couch as her words squirm into your brain and press some uncomfortable buttons.
>"One year?"
"Mmm-hmm!"
>"I've been here for one year." She leaps over your table and traipses on your couch.
"And what a year it's been! Me and you almost every day, having fun, playing games, singing songs!"
>She throws her forehooves over you shoulders and rubs against your head.
"And now we get to look forward to a whole 'nother year full of even more fun!"
>More buttons are pressed in your head. A lever is thrown. A panel is kicked.
>You calmly stride to your open window, Pinkie Pie still hanging off your back like some the fructose-laced parasite she is.
>You close it so you can have the satisfaction of throwing it open.
>You take a deep breath and express your opinion in a very loud swear word.
"Oh, are we doing breathing exercises? Good idea. Gotta be in tip-top-shape for when we sing your anniversary song!"
>"FFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-"
"LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-"
>You both pass out from the lack of air.
>It's the closest you've come to being happy in recent memory.

>You come too.
>There are no pearly gates where your dog is waiting for you, or a fiery pit with some horned devil trying to shove a pitchfork up your ass.
>So that means your still alive. Crap.
>You sit up slowly. The fact that it's nighttime is slowly making itself evident. The near pitch-darkness should've been a big hint, but you can be pretty stupid sometimes.
>A match lights itself. Soft orange light drapes itself unassumingly over your living room.
"Good nap, huh? I was getting kinda tired myself anyway.
>Pinkie Pie holds the match over a single candle, positioned in the middle of a small circular strawberry cake, set an a small plate on the floor.
>It's different from her usual affairs of diabetic inducing towers of icing, bitterness, and cold hatred.
>She waves the match out and stares at you like you stared at the floorboards.
>Expectantly.
>"So this is the part where I wish that you go away, blow out the candle, and only get to be horribly disappointed 'cus you didn't vanish into thin air?"
"Is that what you want to happen?"
>"That's what's gonna happen." She puts her hooves on her chin.
"Then why don't you wish for something else? Something that'll make you feel good instead of just disappointed?"
>A sudden asteroid falling through your roof and blowing off your skull would feel pretty good, but you've yet to make friends with a p0ny who's talent is armageddon.
>"Fine. I wish I knew what your deal is. You won't leave me alone. Ever. Why not? Tell me, so I can at least know the reason behind this godless torment, however warped and perverted."
"Anon?"
>"Hrngh?"
"You're pretty silly, you know that?"


>You wish you had another glass of lemonade so you could throw it.
>"_______"
>She disregards your silent underlines and bobs her head in rhythm with the softly waving flame of the candle. A bead of wax is slowly trailing down its side.
"If I left you alone, what would have been doing for the past year?"
>"Sitting here. Alone. Peacefully."
"And would that make you happy?"
>"No."
"Exactly. You don't like me, even though you do."
>"You are the devil."
"But you know, I just feel better knowing that I'm getting you out of the house, hating me, hating my parties, instead of being locked up in here and hating yourself."
>"I'm gonna hate myself double just to spite you."
"See? You got a new project already!"
>She sidles up against you.
"I can't -make- you like me, but at least I can keep your day going."
>Oh hell.
>The past 365 days of unleaded torture blinks through your mind like a bad 10th grade powerpoint presentation.
>You had something new to hate every day. You've experienced so many shades of loathing, disgust, and contempt than you could ever dream of. Far more varied and enrapturing than the bland, cold, boring hatred of just sitting in your room.
>You've become a connoisseur of hatred.
>And it was all thanks to Pinkie and her unbreakable dedication to annoying you.
>You begin to foam at the mouth.
>Pinkie Pie dabs at your chin with a napkin.
"I'm gonna take that as a thank-you."


>You brain eventually forces equilibrium upon you.
>You fight against it, but the damn thing wins out in the end like it always does. Pinkie trots the two steps back to the other side of the cake once your critically-acclaimed episode is over with. You breathe. You breathe again.
>Once more out of habit.
>"So you'd rather have me be seething than just sitting alone in here." She nods gently.
"Yup. No one should be miserable. Even if super-angry all the time is the only other way they can be."
>This was making zero sense to you.
>"And this cake is a dedication to a whole year of that?" She shrugs and looks at you with big blue eyes, dancing with the single fire of a half-melted candle.
"Kinda. It's for this year, and the next one. I'm makin' you a promise Anon, I'm never gonna let you be -just- miserable. I'm going to make every day of yours interesting. And you're gonna hate me for it, but that's okay."
>"No it's not." She tosses her hair dismissively and giggles.
"Says you. So yeah Anon, get ready is all I'm saying."
>She traces her hoof along the grains of your floorboards.
"Because one day I think you're gonna get tired of hating everything. Hating this place, and everyone who lives here. Get tired of hating me. Who knows. I don't. Not for sure."
>"I know. And no. I will never stop hating you, or everything else. Not in a year, or ten years, or a hundred years! I'll hate everything you throw at me, and never change my mind." The corner of her mouth curled up like the thin lines of smoke from the flame. She spoke quietly.
"I guess I'll never stop trying then." You cross your arms.
>"I guess so."
>You blow out the candle.
>The two of you eat cake in dark and silence.

>You didn't hate it as much as you thought you would.