I was only 9 years old. I loved Derpy so much, I had all the merchandise, posters, and limited-edition muffin tins. Every night before bed, I prayed to Derpy and thanked her for the life I’d been given.
“Derpy is love,” I would say. “Derpy is life.”
My dad heard me and called me a cloud-brain. I knew he was only jealous of my devotion. I called him a muffin thief. He slapped me and sent me to bed.
I was crying, and my face hurt. I lay under the covers while the wind rattled the window. Then I heard a crash from outside. A warm, muffin-scented breeze filled the room.
Derpy flew through the window upside down, wearing a mailmare’s bag and carrying three dozen muffins. She smiled at me and whispered, “This is my muffin.”
She grabbed me with her powerful pony hooves and launched us into the night sky. We crashed through a cloud, delivered a letter to the wrong house, and accidentally knocked over a weather balloon.
My dad walked in. Derpy looked him straight in the eye and said, “It’s all bucked now.” Then she flew away, leaving a muffin on his forehead.
Derpy is love. Derpy is life.