You wake up on a Monday morning and awkwardly move the body of two sweaty middle-aged men from the bed to check your MLP Rarity Hasbro(tm) Special Edition alarm clock. '14:10' Immediately exhale a sigh of relief, you thought for a moment you might have overslept. You grab your phone and let out the first dozen tweets of the day, as you type various 'hnnnnngs' and 'gosh *blush emoji* *blush emoji*s'
You start to hear the distant lashing of whips and bleating in the distance that signals the beginning of another busy work day for all the kweeeer girls at the ranch. The two troons on the bed, at this noise, break into Pavlovian panicking, as the sound of pained Alpacas of treading work-boots remind them that Mxtress is nearby. They hurry into their most feminine dirt-caked overalls. Ah, but its a busy day for you too, must get straight to your essential ranching job.
You akwardly plod over to your giant pink gamer girl chair which squeaks in protest as you drop your hulking womanly bulk into it. 'Hmmmmmm', you stroke your girly chin-hair pensively. One of the help oiled the chair just yesterday, it shouldn't be already making noise like this, you make a note to tell Mxtress that she will need to drive you to Costco again to buy a few more replacements. Can never have another comfy chairs for a valued employee. Power up your giant monolith gaming PC, feel the entire shack shudder and vibrate as Windows 10 begins to boot and see, in the distance, at least 3 rooms lose power as all the power is diverted towards the desktop. After another good 20 tweets or so, its time to clock in, loading up all the important work documents: one tab for your paypal, one tab for your Ko-Fi, one for your Amazon wishlist and, of course, the Tenacious Unicorn pride and joy, the begging spreadsheet. All expenses and all income balanced with meticulous detail.
You gasp in horror. A sea of Red! This can't be right, you only added a few more necessary expenses, (a new pretty pink princess Switch OLED so you can play both copies of the new Pokemon at once, a pre-order of the Griftotron Prime Transformer limited edition and a $150 sampler of the pot-shops latest premium offerings) and surely in the 10 hours sleep you had the donations would have made up the difference. Panic starts to set in, you looks desperately for ways to make the difference. First, unnecessary costs. The alpaca feed, that can be slashed a little more, there are still some of them without visible ribcages. Second, it's a heavy price to pay but you'll have to cut the worker's weed supply, not directly of course, you'll just have to talk Mxtress into cutting the ditchweed with some of the Alpaca hay. Necessary sacrifices, necessary sacrifices. Still, in order to make the difference, you ensure to up your TPM (tweet-per-minute) average.
Right as you start to build up a heavy finger-sweat, your tweeting reverie is interrupted by the industrial alarm bells installed in every room all going off at once. 'Achtung! Achtung! All workers to the nearest dilation station! All workers to the nearest dilation station!' Mxtress' dreamy soft feminine voice harshly reverberates around the entire complex. Your flabby chest swells in pride as you think of how progressive a workplace you live in that allows two whole dilation breaks during the mandatory 14 hour farm shifts. Ah, but those expenses won't pay for themselves. You decide against dilating today, you feel bad but this is the cost of ranch-work. Besides, around this time Mxtress makes the workers muck the alpacas by hand, so the dilation stations are a little smelly for your taste.
Eventually after a good round of blocking chuds, engaging with clients by replying to their tweets about inflatable tigers, creating new clients by telling obese mentally ill men they are trans and discovering new bills to tweet about, its time for a hearty working lunch. You tuck into a delectable meal of hot pockets, giant fatty rashers of bacon, extra-cheesy cheesy tater tots and fudge chocolate pop tarts, letting out a dainty, womanly belch that makes everyone else guffaw in deep feminine chortles. After wiping the grease from your face, you notice Mxtress is eyeing you with curiosity. "You are not having the seconds, meine sweet kinder?'".You let out a demure blush. "Oh goshhh no, mxtress, I'm on that diet still". Mxtress curves her mouth into a thin, leathery smile, reaching across with a black-gloved hand, squeezing your cheek affectionately, the pink unicorn armband on her hand shaking as she does it. "Of course, meine sourdough strudel, ah but that reminds me". Suddenly she reaches across for a riding crop resting against the kitchen tables and slams it loudly across the table, disturbing the nearby bowls of Mac 'n' Cheez and chicken tendies. "WHERE IST THE PFERD-PISSEN, BRING IT TO ME NOW, NOW, NOW!". The two troons opposite you quickly stand to attention, give the trans-affirmation salute and rush out the kitchen. You hear muffled arguments with the farm-help outside. Its time for the special magic injections!
Soon afterwards you step outside, walking through the farm on the way back to the PC, excited to see whether or not those donations would allow you to order another case of MTG cards. Suddenly you notice one of the farm-help staring directly at your chest. Oh gosh, that diet must already be paying off, your svelte body will make you the belle of the next furry convention. The farm-hand licks his lips. 'My, oh hngngngngn' you think to yourself, your feminine clit penis becomes erect and your nipples become instantly sore, causing you to place your hands over your chest. As you do this, you accidentally brush against unnoticed remnants of tater tots, dropping them onto the floor. Immediately the emaciated form of the farmhand pounces to the floor and greedily devours the dropped food, apparently unaware of you the whole time. Hmmph! You make a mental note to slash the farm-hand food budget even more, for having the energy to so blatantly attempt sexual assault on a dainty lady like you, if you hadn't skillfully dodged them who knows what might have happened? You channel this energy into a string of enlightened iconoclast tweets against the Patriarchy and trans-misogyny.
After about 200 tweets later, you decide its time for a well-deserved 4 hour Overwatch break. After scrubbing out of your bronze placement match and being called 'bro' by 3 different 12 year olds (swiftly reporting them to Blizzard afterwards), you decide to load up your favourite sissy hypno cuck compilations and start shlicking your girlclit penis. After 30 minutes and half a bottle of lube later, as you approach the beginnings of arousal for the first time in 3 months, suddenly the room goes dark and the PC screen turns black "ARGHHHHHHHH! REEEEEEEEE!" Thanks to the power-outage your rhythm is entirely thrown off, your nerves have fully awoken. You march over to the power-room ready to yell, only to see Mxtress there already, screaming "neine, neine, neine!" at the two distraught emaciated Hispanic men currently collapsed next to the Tenacious Unicorn renewable-power hamster wheels. Looks like Mxtress will have to turn on the coal-powered furnace tonight. You sigh as you head to the gas mask cabinet as the whole ranch is drowned in thick black smoke.
It finally turns to 7PM, what a tough day at work. You look out and see the other troons in overalls, still working, you scoff at their laziness, you got your work done on time and they start at 6AM. No wonder the ranch always needs more money. You shake your giant easter island head as you unpack the latest stuffies you ordered, organise all 500 of your action figures and relax with a family bag of Cheetos, a pre-rolled organic joint and the latest Pokemon. Another day of Kathryn Gibs living her best life.
I mean he has a lot more to worry about getting trapped in there than the average lady, who only has to remember to pee and is generally good to go.
