To Princesses Celestia and Luna, and the Ever-Unfortunate Twilight Sparkle,
It is I, the Great and Powerful Trixie! And I am writing to inform you that I am experiencing the worst, most horrific day of my life. You may think you know suffering—you, who have endured Wal-Mart restrooms, eldritch McDonald's, and truck stops from Tartarus—but none of you have faced what I have: the DMV.
Yes, Twilight Sparkle, laugh if you must, but know this—no amount of alicorn magic or friendship lessons can save a pony from the soulless abyss that is the Department of Motor Vehicles. I arrived promptly at 8 AM, foolishly believing that being early would grant me some advantage. But no! The moment I stepped inside, time itself ceased to function. A great, slouching beast of bureaucracy loomed before me, its many heads whispering in monotone voices, "Take a number." I took number 384. The board read 002.
Hours passed. Decades, perhaps. The chairs were designed not for comfort but for suffering—plastic, cracked, and eternally sticky. The foal behind me kicked my seat with the force of a minotaur. The air smelled of expired coffee and despair. And worst of all—I was fined. My wagon license was expired by a mere two days, and the goblins behind the counter showed no mercy. Bits were taken. Sanity was lost. When my name was finally called, I felt not joy, but the cold, empty acceptance of one who has seen the void.
And now, after escaping that nightmare, I find myself in another! I am currently trapped inside a gas station—a gas station so vile, so sticky, that I am convinced it is held together by spilled soda and despair alone. The "bathroom" (if it can even be called that) has a door that does not lock, a sink that only dispenses brown water, and a urinal that should not be doing what it is currently doing. The snack aisle is 90% expired beef jerky, and the hot dogs on the roller grill have achieved sentience.
But that is not even the worst part. The place is being robbed.
Yes! As I write this, two stallions in ski masks are waving crossbows around, demanding bits from the cashier, who, judging by his complete lack of concern, has seen this happen before. I am currently hiding behind a rotating display of sunglasses, praying they do not notice me.
Twilight, Princesses, if any of you receive this letter, please—SEND HELP. Or at least send somepony with an escape wagon, because Trixie refuses to be arrested for loitering again.
With Increasingly Less Greatness and Power,
Trixie Lulamoon