“C'mon!” you insist. “How do I get turned back?”
He slowly brings his glass of salt water up to his lips. “I think you've had enough to drink, miss.”
“But I'm serious!” you wail. “I'm sending out a message, and it goes like 'boop-doop-doop' and you're -not listening,- because you're like, 'yargh, I don't wanna listen to her because she's a girl,' except I'm -not- a girl, you chauvinist, deconstructionist, defenestrationist--”
The room is spinning at a marvelous rate, and you almost want to stop talking just to take a closer look. You're also starting to slide off the stool, but you don't care.
Fairweather shouts something slow and incoherent at you. His two companions have stopped their argument entirely, watching you with worried gazes.
Your head smacks against the edge of the bar top as you finally slip off your seat. The stool slams into your ribs, forcing the air out of your lungs before you spill onto the floor.
Tears bead in your eyes, but they're not from the pain. The world is starting to seem clearer now, and your misery springs anew. “Please, just...listen to me!” you plead, your voice dry and raspy. Your throat feels almost as parched as it was when you first saw Appleloosa. “I need to find a way back!”
Moaning, you struggle to pick yourself up, but your hooves just scratch feebly against the floor.
Fairweather looks down at you. A pitying look crosses the stallion's sharp features. “Get on your hooves,” he sighs.
“But I can't,” you moan. Vaguely you know how childish you sound, but right now you couldn't care less. “Just help me up...why won't you--”
“Because it's not right,” Fairweather says sternly.
You stare up at him, blinking in confusion.
His expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I don't know what you went through yesterday. But sooner or later, you're going to have to start respecting yourself again. Now, get up.”