Sliver Storm closed her book. It was three pages long thus far, and already showed signs of poor writing. Heck, she didn't even have a good concept to work off, her spelling was poor, and hooves were not fashioned for penmanship. If only she had fingers, or a horn, or a scribe. But even if her hoofwriting was legible there was still the fact that her writing was a pile of rotten apples. Okay, maybe… maybe if the main character was a mare… no. Alright, forget the book, there was still a bunch of other stuff she could try! Like painting! Only this time she would use egg based paints. After thirty sketches, ten hours, eight dozen eggs, and all the pigments she had lying around, the grey pony was covered in smudged variations of brown, having failed to mix colors, and had completed an anatomically inaccurate picture of a dragon. It had no background, and was very poorly outlined. Painting wasn't working. Okay, okay, so she couldn't draw, paint, write, sculpt, carve, race, farm, craft, tinker, sing, sew, or entertain in any way, to save her life. But there was still math! She sat down with an abacus and stared at it. She had no idea how to use it. No matter! There was still… still… what hadn't she tried yet? She didn't have a job, or a passion. She had a few friends, but she didn't talk to them that much. She stood up and wandered to bed, but caught a glance out the window as she went.
A young pegasus colt had set up a rough set of stairs out of clouds for a unicorn of the same age, who carefully walked up them. A unicorn standing on clouds? That was so cool! Why couldn't she stand on clouds, a unicorn could with his little foal magic, earthponies could probably do stuff just as cool. The unicorn colt was startled out of his concentration by a flash of light and fell off his little cloud tower. When he got back up on his little hooves he noticed the new cloud on his flank. He and his friend ran inside one of a house with their good news.
Silver Storm froze. She wanted to look back at her own rear, she wanted to see a colorful picture emblazoned on her dull grey coat, but if she looked, she would start crying. Finally she gave way, her chest and throat tensed at the sight of her dull grey haunch, and a strained whine slipped through her clenched teeth, soon followed by tears. She was thirty-eight years old, and still a blankflank.
A.N.: Just a bit about how I see myself.
P.S.: Dear someone, happy now?