My Little Pinkie Pie - MLP Fanfic

Chapter 8 - Nightmares

I can't believe it's been more than a month since I first found Pinkie. And wow, has it been a busy one!

One time, I came home from shopping and had bought some paints and easels and cleared out the spare room. It was time Pinkie had a room where she could be the messy pony that she was. This was the only place where I would not be allowed to clean. I placed the easel in the centre of the room and squirt out some coloured paints onto a pallet.

I demonstrated to Pinkie how to paint with my fingers, dipping one into some pink paint and outlining a silhouette of a pony. Pinkie copied, only this time, she made a more clumsy looking figure. She giggled as she continued to paint, and I laid out white sheets of paper on the ground for her to paint on.

Soon, Pinkie had started to jump on the tubes of paint, making the colours squirt out. By late afternoon, it seemed like Pinkie Pie had hit the easel with a paint bomb. Her hair was slightly wavy, but covered in paint, as well as the rest of her body. I sighed and put my hands on my hips, showing a goofy smile. "Pinkie," I tutted.

Lately, she's been going in there a lot. I guess because she is a pony of mess, and I'm a person of OCD, and she feels more at home in there. Her hair though, no matter how often I straighten it, has become wavier. Like, I run my straightening iron over it and with one movement, it bounces back to its wavy state.

But still, Pinkie really hasn't seemed to pick up on the speech thing. I've tried to teach her, but she doesn't seem too keen.

I have also taught Pinkie how to bake. Well, sort of. As long as she cleans up afterwards, I'm okay with her baking. She's mastered the art of chocolate cupcakes and cookies, and is now working on cakes. I've had to make numerous trips to the store for baking supplies, which means I have to take Pinkie along with me, just in case she hurts herself at home. I have to practically stuff her into my hiker's backpack, because, who knew, fillies grow quickly. Really quickly. I seriously had to buy a hiker's backpack, you know, one of those ginormous bags that go down to your mid thighs.

It hasn't been that bad, but I've got serious writer's block and am starting to write less and less, and my wallet is getting pretty Jenny Craig. Pinkie hasn't noticed, but I've been going on shopping trips less and less and just been going out when Pinkie wants to. I just haven't had the heart to tell Pinkie, I mean, I don't want to ruin her happy vibe. She's really the only thing that's keeping me going these days.

Tonight, though, Pinkie has gone to bed super early tonight, courtesy of me setting the clocks two hours ahead, so I can get in a good writing session. I can barely remember the name of my main character in the book I'm working on. I've already started on three other books, just trying to get ahead. The keypad on my laptop makes little clicking noises as the bright light from the screen glows on my face. I curse under my breath when I get yet another email about someone commenting on one of my YouTube videos, trying to pressure me into making another video. Fuck them, I have Pinkie Pie now.

I smile as I hear soft snoring coming from Pinkie. I mean, sure, snoring is a sign that the person isn't breathing properly. But this is Pinkie, and it's adorable.

I type furiously through the night, getting up only thrice. The first time was to take a dump, the second was to get some junk food and the third was to set all the clocks back to normal. I'm not used to these all nighters anymore. It's weird being a step mom. Crap, I just wrote that! I sigh as I press down on the delete button.

Just as I begin to describe the texture of the unicorn's fur, I hear birds start to twitter and see the sun rising through the curtains of the window next to my bed. I sigh and look in satisfaction at the seven and a half chapters I have written and decide it's time for a nap break. I save my work and push my laptop onto my bedside table, snuggling into the covers to begin my two hour slumber.