#mlpanalyst

Dear Diary, Welp, finally did it. Decided to start a diary. For the sake of improving my writing. Just as my professor said I should be doing. . . . To be honest, I don't like keeping up with these things. I prefer to write ongoing study packets and papers than write down what I feel. Sure it helps the process but I already do a stream of consciousness in real life when I speak. Why waste my time writing it down when I can just talk about what I'm feeling? Plus, I hate daily commitments like this. Having to come back day in, day out, and try to one-up yourself with the events of the current day? Not my thing.

But, I’m doing this for writing purposes, and because my degrees and research call for it, so, might as well find something in this to enjoy. . . . Guess I should introduce myself then? Kind of awkward, since I'm writing this in a book that only I'll look at. But, semantics. Not much to say about me physically, honestly. I'm a unicorn from Appaloosa. My coat color came from my mom, and my mane and tail came from my dad. It's an interesting mix, apparently, because ponies in Canterlot asked me if I came from Las Pegasus or Vanhoover. No idea why. Aqua and dark blue must be common there. Although I do have to stress to ponies several times that the purple in my mane is natural. That's how I was born. No freak magic incident, no insane cursed object - just, genetics. Same with my beauty mark. But that's another headache of misunderstanding all on its own. Back to business. My mother? 

Strongest mare you will ever meet. 

Brazen Core is no pony you would want to mess with. If you get her mad, then Celestia have mercy on you. She once galloped two days to get medicine for my grandma from Ponyville because of a train delay, and never once complained about her hoof aches. This is a mare who single-hoofedly planted and plowed three fields of carrots in one day, all while carrying two of my sisters. Then, she scared off a group of renegade buffalo, just by stomping her hoof! Then again, if I were a young buffalo buck and saw a mare with two fillies to her sides, a sharp plow, and red, dried eyes, I'd head for the hills, too. My father works just as hard as my mother to maintain our home and the postal system in Appaloosa. He acts like he doesn't like or care about parcel management, but he does enjoy it. He also hates it when ponies call him the “male mare”. With a name like Pink Postal, hard not to. He said he was named after a band. I never saw it. 

But I’m probably more on the same mental level as him. We’re both intelligent ponies, rarely share emotions . . .  

We also share the same sense of humor, much to my mother’s chagrin. Every time she sees us laughing all she can do is sigh and wonder where I got it from.

So.

I lived with them and my five sisters in Appaloosa for as long as I could remember.

This is the part where ponies start to ask the real questions, so I’ll just make this quick. Yes, there are significant age differences between us, yes, we’re all related despite our mane and coat colorings, and yes, my father IS outnumbered. 

My first sister, Cinnamon Copper, was named after our great-aunt Cinnamon Sticks. She's sassy, and then some, kind of like my mom. She's plump for her size. Just, don't call her fat. Trust me on this one. She enjoys cooking and helped my mom make dinner for the longest time when my sisters were smaller. Cinnamon also collects some of the most esoteric stuff possible, mostly from Manehatten. 

She got married recently, too. Unicorn. Nice guy. Kind of stuck in the past, but eh, everyone in Canterlot kind of is.  Next is Golden Rose, a dramatic pony if I've ever seen one. She's named after my dad's great-great grandma Rose Briar. Has her hair to match, too, which they think is scary. She can dance and sing, and loves to perform. I always caught her daydreaming at pictures of Manehatten. I know mom would never let her go on her own, so all she can do now is dream. 

Someday, sis. Someday. Normally she's a great conversationalist, but she's going through the typical hormonal imbalances that come with growing up. (Or, as my Grandma Cobalt put it, "she's walking into winter with only her earmuffs"). Then there are the twins, Silver Rope and Platinum Brand. They’re named after my mother’s second great cousins, who were also twins. They both have the same mane and tail colors, but Silver cut her hair shorter so folks wouldn’t mistake her for Platinum. Likes it that way, too. They both love to draw, and enjoy helping with animals in town. 

Platinum has more of a knack for drawing, though. Cutie mark shows it. Silver is jealous as Tartarus, but doesn’t want to admit it.  Finally, there's my youngest sister, Palladia Bells. She’s named after father’s great grandma, Dandy Bell. She's the smallest of us all, and she won't get any bigger. Which she doesn't like. But she's rough and tumble, and is always looking for some new adventure. Give her wings and she’d easily become a renegade adventurer like Daring Do.

If that happened, though, mom would have a heart attack. And I don’t blame her one flipping bit.

And then there's me: Rain Dust. The eldest, and somehow, the only unicorn. Some think that’s weird, but I never really found it weird. There are dozens of unicorns on my father’s side of the family. Figured it was only a matter of time before one of us developed magic. As I said before, I’ve got my mother’s light aqua coat, and my father’s dark velvety mane and tail. The texture is like my mother, but a bit rougher. Frizzier. I blame the heat. The darker streak in my mane is something no one really knows about. My mom thinks it comes from my great grandpa. Dad agreed.

Had I the chance to meet him, I’d ask him how he kept it in place. It falls in my face all the darn time.

Hairpins do nothing.

As for size, I’m on the short side. Ponies and creatures alike confuse me for a school filly. Flattering, sure, but it’s a pain in the flank when I want to get the newest novel and they ask for ID. 

Even had somepony ask me if I lost my mom when I went shopping in Canterlot. 

Still can’t live that down.

. . . And looking through what I’ve written so far, I’m only seeing the ramblings of an embarrassed pony who thinks they’re confessing to some stallion under a tree. 

Figures. 

I’ll wrap this up for now before I embarrass myself any further. 

See you later,