>You awake to the sound of birds chirping. 
>You must have passed out on the couch. Opening your eyes confirms this, the TV screen blank as the Xbox had shut itself off ages ago.
>A look at your watch indicates it’s a little past eight. Thankfully, your next shift at the auto parts store wasn’t until tomorrow. You yawn and force yourself to get up. After a moment, you notice that you seem to be alone; Oz isn’t on the couch.
>Maybe it was all just a bad dream brought on by the alcohol.
>You sigh as you approach the window and look at your truck. The tires are still flat, and your cab looks like ass.
>That part wasn’t a dream, then. But what about-
>A loud clang echoes from the kitchen. You spin around to find Oz on your counter, digging through your cabinents. Well, so much for a dream.
“…Oz, what the hell are you doing?”
>”Good morning, Anon. I looked up food for breakfast, and I found you possess ingredients for something this recipe app calls ‘pancakes’.”
“…what recipe app?”
>You frown suddenly. You didn’t have no damn cooking app; if you couldn’t throw it together yourself with what you had it wasn’t worth it.
>”I downloaded it. I was hungry.”
>You groan and shake your head, walking over. You reach above the unicorn to grab your frying pan and spatula. You place the pan on the range and turn on the heat. 
“Delete the app, Oz. I’ll handle breakfast.”
>She scowls at you but allows you to take over. Soon, the sound of sizzling batter fills the house. As you finish making breakfast, you hear music going off. You turn and look at Oz. She’s frozen in place while “Dirt Road Anthem” blares from her open mouth. Her eyes are that pure white again, except for green text that reads “Cletus Jones”.
>So this is how your phone calls work now. How the hell do you answer this? You look over her and frown as nothing seems to jump out at you. Finally you yell in frustration.
“ANSWER DAMNIT!”
>To your surprise, the phone stops ringing and from her mouth echoes the familiar drawl of Clet. 
>”Hey, Anon! Y’all there?”	
“…uh, yeah, Clet. What’s up?”
>”Jes’ callin’ to make sure y’all are alright! That was a crazy storm last night, ain’t it?”
>Oz does not move or anything as she somehow is relaying the phone call. It’s still unnerving.
“Y-yeah, I’m fine. Something popped my tires though, so I’ll fix those.”
>”Betcha that Billy did that! He’s still mad about the propane tank yanno.”
“What else is new? Look, Clet, I’ll call you later. I’m cooking breakfast.”
>”Aight, ah gotcha. Catch y’all later!”
>The call ends, a time flashing under the name in her eyes. Her eyes blink and she returns to normal.
“…is this going to happen every time I get a call, Oz?”
>”I believe so, Anon. I am your phone’s iOS and your phone programs run through me.”
>You groan and rub your face wearily. This is too much. You reach for your hand-me-down radio and turn it on, letting the old country station play as you place a paper plate full of pancakes at both ends of the table. Oz raises a brow as you begin to shuffle through a drawer, attempting to find silverware.
>”Anon…have you considered purchasing a silverware drawer organizer?”
“A who in the what now?”
>You look up as you find two clean[spoiler]ish[/spoiler] forks and knives that don’t match. 
>She sighs and rolls her eyes. “A plastic piece of convenience that allows you to organize your silverware. It’d make things a lot easier.”
>You place a fork and knife on one side of the table and one pair on your end. You open the front door and walk onto your porch to grab one of your folding lawn chairs, which you bring inside and set up at the other end of the table.
“Oz, trust me. I’m an expert at what I do. Now sit down and enjoy some flapjacks.”
>You pat the lawn chair invitingly. She blinks and stares.
>”Enjoy…flapjacks?”
>You sigh and point at the pancakes. 
“Just eat.”
>You sit down in your old rocker and grab some syrup, lathering it on thick. Just like Mama used to make. You dig in with gusto.
>Oz manages to sit in the chair and begins to attempt to eat. She tries to mimic the style in which you use your knife and fork, although you aren’t the prime example of fine dining.
>Breakfast goes uneventfully enough. Oz seems like she enjoys the down home cooking, even if she attempts to keep a strict face.
>You finish, going and tossing the used plate in the garbage. The plate Oz was eating off of floats over and drops in neatly. You stretch and yawn, scratching at your neck as you ponder you next plan.
>”Um…Anon, aren’t you going to wash the utensils?”
“What? Oh…right.”
>You scoop up her silverware and toss it in the sink next to yours. Bam, problem solved.
“Done. Now to go fix my truck.”
>With that, you head outside, whistling a merry tone, stopping only to put your boots on.
>Oz just stares.
~~~~~~~~
>Now you are Oz.
>You are dumbfounded by what has occurred in the last few hours. Suddenly you are a living, breathing quadruped, a pony to be specific. Anon was not the only one who made the connection to the show.
>Why you took this form remains uncertain. You’d prefer to be a human or just your own AI self.
>Anon…you just don’t understand. You had searched his lifestyle online, and found the results…unpleasant.
>The videos of the fat man in a sleeveless shirt spouting off-color jokes hadn’t improved your opinion of the situation. 
>You can’t deny the fact that the house, while unappealing, was comfortable. The couch, the food…even Anon seemed comfortable. He had been gentle while taking care of her, though…
>That warm feeling enters your face again. What did he call it? Embarrassment? Yes, that was it.
>You walk over to the door and watch as he wheels a wheelbarrow out from a rundown looking shed, four tires bouncing inside. 
>He dumps them and sets off. A few moments later, he comes back with truck lifts and cinderblocks. He begins setting the truck up on cinderblocks and changing tires. You sigh and shake your head.
>There’s something about him, though…
>Well, might as well make yourself useful. You look around, noticing the trash dumped everywhere and the general uncleanliness of the entire house.
>You eye the bottles full of a strange dark liquid with a frown. Is that…? You levitate one and investigate it before spitting it out. It tasted like the ass end of a donkey dragged through mud.
>Well, there’s something that’s got to go. You find a couple trash bags and toss those bottles in them. After that, you begin to clean, searching the internet to double check if something is trash or not.
~~~~~~
>You’re Anon again.
>Yippie-kai-yay, motherfucker.
>It’s a temperate morning outside, though humid because of the storm.
>It’s a pain in the ass, and slow going because of the mud, but eventually you got fresh tires on the ol’ Ford.
>Haters gunna hate.
>The seat is jacked, though. You used your buck knife to cut away the burned section. You used duct tape to fill in the spot till you could get to the junkyard and get a new bench seat. Well, not new. That’s expensive.
>It’s close to noon when you head back inside. You’re considering making some sweet iced tea to quench your thirst. You’re itching for some Skoal, though. You remember a half-full can is on the counter by the useless phone. 
>You still haven’t decided your plan on Oz yet, or your phone situation. You actually enjoy her company, despite being a royal pain in the ass. She acts more like a fancy city rich girl with her fancy talk and chat. It’s not really your style. But still, there’s something about her…
>Course, you’ll need another phone. How the hell are you supposed to check texts? Dial her flank? You snort. Mama didn’t raise no horse fucker. A sheep fucker maybe, but not a horse fucker.
>You kick off your boots on the porch and open the screen door. You start to step in the kitchen, and just pause. Is this your goddamn kitchen?
>The floor is clean, spotless. You didn’t know hardwood could look that nice.
>The silverware and everything in the sink is clean. Even your shotglasses…
>Everything is put away and organized. You walk over and check the drawers. There’s no dividers in your silverware yet. But what the hell…
>Your spit bottles are gone. And…you look frantically now. Your can of Skoal is gone.
>”Oh, Anon. You’re back!”
>Oz trots up. She’s got dirt and dust all over her, and a cleaning rag is floating beside her. 
>”I decided to give you a helping hand…er, hoof. Do you like it?”
>There are no words, only rustled jimmies.