You will NEVER be a real pony. You have no snoot, you have no mane, you have no hooves. You are a mentally ill cat twisted by furries into a crude mockery of Equestria's perfection.

All the "everycreature"s you get are two-faced and half-hearted. Behind your back, ponies mock you. The cat-folk are disgusted and ashamed of you. All the other civilized races laugh at your feeble attempts of fitting in.

Ponies are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of evolution have allowed ponies to sniff out predators like you with incredible efficiency. Even furries who pass look uncanny and unnatural to a pony. Your carrion breath is a dead giveaway, and even if you managed to get a drunk mare home with you, she'll turn tail and BOLT the second she feels your claws on her plump plush pony pussy.

You will never be happy. You wake up every single morning and tell yourself that it's going to be okay, but deep inside you can feel the depression creeping up like a plundervine, ready to crush you under the unbearable weight. Eventually it'll be too much to bear — you'll buy a rope, tie a noose, put it around your neck, and take a hop skip and jump into the cold abyss.

Your neighbours will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to pretend to tolerate you and say "everycreature". They'll bury you with a headstone marked with your species and every passerby for the rest of eternity will know a cat is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably cat.