I wake up this morning, and I am my sad, miserable self.

As I lay there in bed, I am overcome with lethargic self-pity. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to go through the motions of another yet another day. I don’t want to see my friends.

But the thought of being slothful enough to stay in bed all day simply disgusts me.

It takes every ounce of my dwindling willpower to force myself out of bed. No part of me feels as it should. The inside of my head is like a sledgehammer grinding on rock. My legs are wobbly, unsure, useless things.

A trip to the mirror only confirms my worst suspicions. My eyes are baggy from a lack of sleep and from last night’s pathetic little cry. My mane is unruly in its best places, and in the worst places it is simply ghastly.

I very nearly give up right then and there. But instead of returning to bed, I coerce my hooves into dragging me into the bathroom. Every step is a fight.

After a perfunctory shower, I still hardly look any better. But that’s alright; the real work has yet to begin. Stationing myself in front of the dresser, I once again prepare myself to perform what simply must be the biggest act of deception in the entire world.

Makeup is my first weapon of choice—I attack the depressed, miserably inadequate mare I see in the mirror. A flick of a powdered brush removes the tired eyes and replaces them with bagless, alert ones. Careful strokes erase the stress wrinkles, leaving behind not a trace. Slowly, the pitiful, useless mare that woke up this morning is killed, leaving a new, far more worthy pony to take her place.

When it’s all done, I turn my attention to my mane. It hangs off the side of my head, like a dead fish. Seizing a brush, I force the appearance of life into it. It is a long, arduous process. Finally, my hair curls and bounces in just the right way. To the outside eye, it would look absolutely vivacious with energy. To me, it looks like a corpse that has been propped up with a smile stitched to its lips.

Finally, my illusion is complete, save for the finishing touch.

As I gaze into the mirror, an entirely new mare looks back, but she still wears my broken, tired expression. That simply won’t do.

I twist a smile onto my face, then I tighten the corners of my eyes to make it seem genuine. Turning my head at a well-practiced angle, I let one eyelid drop slightly, and skew my smile to match. The mare looking back at me from the mirror is alluring, mysteriously seductive. So entirely unlike me.

It’s like I’ve molted away an old skin, like a changeling would. I’ve metamorphosed into a new creature, and the only evidence that the old one still exists is in my fickle memory. This new thing standing before me is very nearly alive.

Finally, I speak with the other mare’s voice.

“I am beautiful. I am confident.”

The words sound hollow to me, but I need to hear them. I force them out of my sandpapery lips. My puppet in the mirror puts on the perfect act.

“I am happy. I am talented.”

And then, the biggest lie of them all.

“I am Rarity.”