EEYORE NEEDS TO LIGHTEN UP
Don’t Gaslight a Unicorn
If you don’t bring me down, I won’t bring you up

Dear Eeyore,
I am sick of being gaslit by you just because I have sunshine shooting out of my ass. I’m a unicorn, you stuffed donkey. I’m not supposed to be realistic.
Stop blaming me for your ill-pinned-on tail. My superpowered sunshine farts didn’t intentionally unweave the thread between your tail for your tuchus. You were standing in the way of my methane projection of sunshine.
I am sorry the rainbow fairies did not bequeath a stuffed donkey with the same enthusiasm as a magical creature. I am sorry if my mane glistens as brightly as Jennifer Aniston’s hair and my eggs always come up sunnyside.
Do you know why I always see a silver lining, Eeyore? Because clouds are lined in silver, you melancholy stuffy. How do I know that? Because I’m a fucking unicorn and I have flown through them.

You think I enjoy propelling through the silver lining of a cumulous nimbus cloud on a fart rainbow? You think that makes me lucky? You think I’m living a charmed life?
Think again. I have a silver lining allergy. It’s chronic. Whenever I bust through those liquid-lined dusty water droplets, I break out in rainbow connections.

Do you know what it’s like to be chased by a posse of gold-sick leprechauns? Did you ever try to take mulled wine out of Santa Claus’s chubby little Christmas cookie claws? It’s worse than that.
Santa is vicious — but nothing compared to a bunch of insecure, tiny-handed, comb-over, ginger-haired, money grubbers who want gold to paste their names onto skyscrapers. New level, them.
I shouldn’t have to deal with a precariously-tailed stuffed donkey, who insists I’m too optimistic, too smiley, too content with my magical existence. I’m more myth than martyr, synthetic fiber toy, and I don’t need this shit.
Friends — Eeyore actually told me my smile was fake! Can you believe that? He accused moi of being a pathological people pleaser. I don’t like to swear but Eeyore called me a fucking smile fucker.
We don’t say fuck in unicorn-land unless we’re very fucking angry. Like when a leprechaun takes a bite out of our legs. Those little shits have teeth sharp enough to carve their names into buildings.
Let me tell you something, Eeyore. Yeah, it’s pretty nice farting rainbows, shitting gold bricks, and always giving a happy ending in a story — but dude, don’t bring me down.
Here are the facts. Nine out of ten unicorns are not as happy as they look. Ten out of ten unicorns do not like being gaslit. Happy unicorns don’t like being sucked into the swamp of an unhappy, batting-filled, stuffed donkey. Unhappy donkeys don’t want to be cheered up by toxically happy unicorns.
Oh, hold on. Shit. I eureka’d man.
I didn’t see your side, Eeyore. I’m sorry, pellet-filled, Pooh sidekick. How about this? I promise not to cheer you up if you promise not to bring me down. Excuse me. Yeah, that was me. I farted a rainbow.

