http://pastebin.com/ND4qAGnp
http://pastebin.com/u/StayedGolden




-Something I made up for senpai PonyBones: http://pastebin.com/u/Ponybones (http://pastebin.com/6pAVvJ4D)

>It was a quiet ride, the sun’s gaze sleepily blinked by the grey clouds settled on the horizon.
>The empty hills rose and fell like the stretching shoulders of the yawning boy at the wheel. Anon Y. Mous, seventeen years old and recently orphaned, did not turn to wave goodbye to the city that had swallowed his parents. The white, curtained eyes of the buildings had stare dully, stupidly at his early departure from the passive, eventually explosive malevolence that lied behind them. A choir, knowing no note but F sharp, had shouted him out into the grassy wasteland, which he now drove through. When the last steel behemoth was consumed by mountains in the rearview mirror, Anon breathed out, the slightest of weights lifted from him. 
	Miles of road and little else scream beneath and by him. A sign blows past him, informing him that the exit to the rural town of Ponyville was 12 miles away. He shifts in his seat, the bunched up mess of his boxers adding another dimension of discomfort to the already over-encumbered boy. There was nothing but the road in front of him this morning; he could not bear to let his mind idle, for fear of the evil thoughts that were saturate and dissolve him, should they gain entry. It was either that, or shut down all thought together, dissolving his cursed mind in the shadowy wraps of numbness. In the end, he would choose both, vacillating between absent-mindedness and sharp, frantic motion towards the occasional goal that surfaced in his consciousness.
	Houses indistinguishable begin to notice him, standing expectantly beside the highway, taking a good look at the new settler. The silent indifference of the farms that his journey had been fraught with, like faceless giants, had slowly petered out in favor of the meaningless houses and grassy green voids. The sun pushed gray light through the thick blankets that covered the sky, as it does the dull reds and yellows through rejecting eyelids. Yellow squares broke through the muted half-town as neighborhoods were sluggishly reanimated. A sprinkle of windows lent their glow in the distant edge of the city, the miniature size of his new home now all too apparent.
	Anon stared dully ahead, his fingers loosely grasping the wheel. He had recently accepted the courtship of numbness, and clung desperately to her comforting hands. But he could not always lose himself in her pale, silvery eyes, and he wrenched his vision towards the day ahead. He hesitated many times, as the sight of the future gave entry to the coal-black hands of despair. Her rotted, clammy hands gripped his cheeks and thrust it into horrid, muddy pools of prescience without a trace of gentleness. Like Shiva, he saw his hands multiply, and fill with overbearing homework, girl’s own, for which he would be forever disconnected, and full bottles of sleeping pills. Failures, rejections, successes followed by loss filled his torn mind, and he began his planning. Anon was smart, if nothing else, and he could and would plan for most anything that could happen to him. He rarely used the full force of his mind, especially now, due to his inherent laziness and his newfound disassociation with the world around him.
	A small summer home rolled into view, stopping as he parked in front of it. The pale yellow paint was muted by the grim sky, looking like the forced smile of an agonized clown. Thick canvas bags piled themselves onto his shoulders, in a desperate hope to drain the last of Anon’s strength, and finally see him collapse. But he held onto his beloved numbness, and set himself as some dead-minded beast of burden, and was thus able to successfully empty his car and fill his house. Unpacking would come later, if ever. He shambled into the room he had stayed in not long ago, his silencing lover plugging his ears to the echoes of laughter past, and never to be repeated. Finally, standing before his gaming station and television, his screaming body found its answer when the battered boy collapsed onto the beanbag, and buried his head in Smash.
	Awakening the next morning, Anon disregarded the announcer’s query of if he was ready to fight, and forced his body into a shower and then new clothes. Half-alive, his plots to gain a social circle (so as not to be bullied for being alone) are barely followed through, the energy to commit himself to them just not being present. Still, he manages to turn the school tradition of parading around the new kid into a profit, earning himself a handful of faceless associates to disappear into. Through the days to come, Anon fell into the role he’d hoped for: the mysterious stranger. He’d keep to himself, staying with his friends occasionally, to not look weird, and allow himself those bursts of recklessness that came upon him suddenly. As such, only the bravest of the girls that liked him would ever approach him, as well as his “friends,” which he would then shut down with the excuse of sensitivity and the hint of past tragedy. Thus, Anon found the solitude he wished for: friends without depth or pestering, and isolation without trouble or revile.  

	Of course, as he often lamented, fate despised any comfort that came, and set a new fire upon him. A beauty had taken up residence in the chair up and to the left of his, in one of his classes. She forced herself into his sight and mind, every morning, slowly filling his vision with her haughty figure. Rich purple locks fell about her perfectly chiseled features, a small but hard chin turned up along with her nose at strangers and suitors alike. What lit him on fire for her was unclear: it may have been her delicate, carefully practiced elegance, reminiscent of the ages of aristocracy, a charm almost unheard of in the other beauties around Anon. It may have been the inapproachability, a different Everest, for which both his manhood and the furious ambition lying deep within him commanded him to scale and conquer. Or maybe he had grown tired of his current, clammy escort, and jumped at the first opportunity to live, by following the orders of the spontaneous bursts of energy now focused on her. But as is common with the mysteries of burning breasts, the fact of the matter shared none of the ambiguity of the source: he wanted her. 
	A lapse in thought had once left him staring at her, for which a disdainful scoff and turn of the violet ringlets was his answer. Thinking back on her general lack of openness and the minor humiliation, he knew he would need more than what he held. Though smart, he was still pretty lazy and reckless, attributes which had become more prevalent over time. So he put his mind to work, allowing it to run at full capacity; febrile energy coursed through him, summoning that genius that had become so hidden over the past few months, that even he had begun to doubt it. Half-dead or not, the gears were spinning, and spinning fast, spurred on by a cycle where pleasure and excitement at the motion and plotting gave him greater energy, which he used for more of the same. Maps open up in his head, paths to her hand lighting up and shutting down whenever some flaw appeared. Once again, Anon was alive, deliriously so, as is any man with purpose regained; the subject of his feverish pursuit was almost a side-note. Even his fiercely held numbness was pushed away, relegated to areas outside of the chase. 
	The plans had begun to stop, a final edition close to fruition when a new factor appeared. He was lost in thought, happily hammering out details when a new card was turned over. A chance worry had escaped her conversation: an urgent need for transportation for her little sister. As any card player knows, a single cut card can change a whole hand, and Anon knew that this one opportunity might be worth leaving behind his whole, finely tuned scheme. He leaned forward, bravely deserting hours of labor, and offered himself as a solution. A suspicious look and interrogation was then thrust upon him, against which he shamefully stuttered his way through, the absence of planning leaving the impassioned boy ruefully unprepared. This was it. She listened attentively, and turned her eyes to the air in thought, before informing him that she would have to decline. 
	Dejected, he sunk back into his seat. Numbness sprung forward, as did a faded simulacrum of his previous fire, one to offer a consoling void and the other the pleasure of purpose and pursuit. With the grimy visage of despair striding quickly towards his heart, he instinctively clung to the easier of the two, numbness. As he sank into her poisonous embrace, he promised a reunion with the latter, unwilling to completely abandon the activity that had given him joy and hope, however briefly. For the rest of the day, he matched the black thunderstorm that had arrived to choke the sky, trudging forward in a somber stillness. The failure of numbness to fend off the intrusion of despair was such that the depression evident on his face caused his friends, by now accustomed to his monk-like disassociation, to ask if something was the matter.
	The world poured down on Anon, the unstoppable assault of raindrops threatening to soak him. Taking cover under a nearby bus station on his walk home, he sat down to wait it out. Somewhere along the line, despair had wrested predominance of Anon’s heart from numbness, and was threatening to consume him whole. Like the Titanic tilting in the air before sliding into the abyss, the entire year behind him felt as though it were finally position to sink into the waters of his consciousness. Anon had always known of the inevitable realization of everything that had happened, known that one day understanding would grow weary of rapping on the door of his mind and simply break down the door. What he did not know is if he would survive it. He felt the door kicked, splintering as the detestable knowledge began forcing its way into him. But at that moment, a vibration tore his mind from the imminent destruction, and brought his grateful mind to the mundane, harmless, practical reality of the phone in his pocket.
	He was in. He was to report to the music studio on Main and 5th in half an hour, and bring the sister straight home. The rude curtness given to his free help, along with the reason of having no one else, hardly mattered to Anon; an escape from thought had come, and his fragile mind would cling to anything it could find. He returned to the pursuit, as promised, and once more his mind began to recover the hope and energy he longed for. Plans erupted before him with all these new possibilities, and he was happy to attend to them; it wasn’t perfect, but it was an escape, which was all he could wish for at this point. He looked out of the bus stop, noticing the retreat of the thunderclouds, a mild drizzle the only remnants of the ferocious attack. He made his way over to the destination, and stands beside the music studio a few minutes before the appointed time, his head filled with maps.

	Lost in thought, Anon failed to notice the sister exit. She’s taller than most girls her age, slightly thicker as well, especially around her hips and thighs. She was a sleeveless, light blue dress with seafoam green and white trim. On her side is a light green bow, matched by a large green gem in the center of the chest. Brown boots on white heels reach up toward her knees, with thick white laces hanging in mismatched knots on the front. A small trinket, resembling a flower, perches within the luscious hair over her right eye, made up primarily of blue, and secondarily of a green to match her dresses’ trim. Great, thick streams of pink and light purple hair cascade over her shoulders in buoyant curls that bounce as she moves. Her skin is the closest thing to connect her to her older sister, a divinely pale hue, soft and devoid of markings. 
	She notices the tall boy leaned against the wall, recognizing him from school, and figuring him as the chauffeur she’d be told she would be having. She reaches out timidly, hesitating then drops her arm before her fingers can brush his jacket. She squeaks his name, and sees his shadowed face looking downward, suddenly lost in the soft green fields of her irises, tumbling and tumbling and tumbling deeper. She tilts her head and speaks his name once more, questioning in that’s his name. Saved from his fall, he responds, informing her that he is indeed Anon. She beams at the tall upper classman with the soft smile and the sad eyes. She is Sweetie Belle, and she is pleased to meet him. 
	A frown touches her face as he begins to lead her towards her destination. She informs him that she doesn’t want to go, and begs him to do anything else. The contortions of her face as she discusses home almost shocks Anon, who did not foresee this at all. She pouts, an adorable assault that threatens to penetrate his heart; but Anon resists, remembering the purpose of being here. His eyes are on a distant rarity, the girl he’s committed to winning. He thinks of the acceptance he’ll undoubtedly gain by responsibly bringing her home safely and punctually, and everything he can do once he becomes a friend. It takes more of an effort to focus on her now, but he continues listing her as the goal.
	The walk home is short, filled with the thick aroma of rain-soaked pavement. The world trilled and turned, sounds of happy citizens and laughing students saturating the air with pleasant sensation. The mild heat was tempered by the damp air, granting the two walkers something like the feeling of coolness of stepping out of a pool in the summer. Neither noticed the blessings of the day. One was wrapped up in the pit of being overlooked, a side note to the social centerpiece of Ponyville, the other wrapped up in thoughts of such. His visions and fantasies of her increasingly need direction and impelling, rather than coming naturally, as they had this very morning. As the walk up to the house, Sweetie Belle grimaces, the pained expression making Anon hesitate before knocking. The door opens, followed by the reception of the package, while the confused chauffeur tries to forget the idea now invading his mind: Sweetie Belle was unhappy. A curt thanks and an enlistment for further duties greets him before the door unceremoniously closes, the sad eyes of Sweetie disappearing behind the white wood. Anon’s plan is moving forward. Anon should be happy. He tells himself to be happy the whole way home, never managing to make what ought to be, be.
	The next few visits are mostly the same, with Anon fending off the heartrending pleas of something, anything besides going immediately home, and the elder sister coldly welcoming the precious girl, and politely giving him an empty expression of gratitude. The overlooked loneliness of the girl, along with the apparent failure to get any closer to the elder sister leads Anon to give into his heart’s desire, which he justifies as a reasonable change of plans based on the contextual landscape. He reasons that making the little sister happy may in turn make the older sister happy. He doesn’t admit how much he wants to see her happy. And so, he starts taking her out. To milkshakes at Hey Burger, to the riverside to just walk and talk, but most often to the arcade. If Anon’s genius could be relied on to shine anywhere, it would be there:  he picked up patterns and finds holes in defenses as easily as others breathe. And now he had something of a student, somebody to show off to and to teach.
	But there was an added bonus, a reward beyond his personal enjoyment: Sweetie Belle became happy. She began to shine, her radiance filling up every room she touched. She would smile constantly, and bounce in place while she waited for him, then spring forward to embrace him when he did arrive. He started to hear her laugh, really laugh, a loud, squeaky, heart-melting sound that he found he couldn’t get enough of. And even though he now dropped her off to a disapproving, increasingly rude sister, he couldn’t bring himself to care, let alone stop. He retained a ghost of his plan, still believing himself to be pursuing her, his mending mind quickly finding ways to justify his actions in the context of winning the hand of a girl he barely even thought of anymore.
	One day, as the two friends sat together, sharing a milkshake, Anon was happy. His best friend sunken into his side, playfully batting his hands away when he tried to claim his share of the shake, a genuine grin began to spread across his face. The importance of it was not lost on Sweetie Belle, who watched his first real expression of joy in wonder, then squeezed him tightly when he noticed her and tried forcing it down. Anon was no longer fleeing in terror from his own understanding, instead resolving to meet it slowly, and working towards a place where he could allow himself to fully know what had happened to him in this past year. He was no longer consumed in a passionate, feverish chase of the unattainable, though she was still the nominal end. He merely sat beside his friend, and stayed there, running from nothing.
	She had confided in him of her fading loneliness and desire to be recognized for more than who she was related to. She regaled him with story upon story of her two best friends, the Cutie Mark Crusaders, and all their adventures, including a particularly good one involving a visiting cousin of Apple Bloom. He told her of his desire to go far in life, and his lack of understanding of how to do that, or what he wanted in a practical sense. He told her of his struggle with laziness and the spontaneous urges to act out or do something dangerous, which he’d never fully mastered. But most importantly, he told her, in vague terms, a cutting loss that he still didn’t know how to deal with. As he’d poured out as much of his heart as he could, she hugged him, saying that she’d always be there for him. And so they’d bought a milkshake, and Anon Y. Mous found himself happy. 
	The next day, as he waited outside of the music studio on Main and 5th, it was he that bounced impatiently on his heels, an excited smile spread across his face. As he waited, just a minute before she would run out and tackle him with a hug, a girl from school named Pinkie Pie came up to him.