It's not really Horace that makes me wonder, it is Martial, I swear. Part I.

Actually, you know what's indulging?
Well, I couldn't tell you even though chocolate soymilk sounds good
and as long as I've got me some Baudelaire I should be lovely.
Everyone's named Clive if they have grey hair, and if not, well they
should be Clive anyway, because I say it sounds advanced, although
asexual.
In any case, it's been rolling like a gel-pen, and nobody really wants
to know the goings-on of my whereabouts.
Jane Austen wrote some long novels, and for the sake of having
half-blooded Americans in a class in Britain, who cares if she could
have been a midget?
To the extent that I am shy, I suppose I can buy books and throw them
into toilet paper bins. God, I cannot write prose for the life of me,
especially if the guy's name is Jack.
I think men have died off, and I should stop running to the red phone
booth at four in the morning.
Forever is only a measure when I say I like crumpets. Peanut butter
sometimes is just too pale. Although other times, it doesn't go with
grapefruit marmalade - but does it ever, really.
Sometimes, if I were posh, I think, I would just screwdrive the wine
coolers into people's skulls, and stop them from drinking Budweiser on
a good day, although it does rain a lot.
I have a pan now!
That gives possibilities that you probably don't comprehend, mainly
because I do enjoy omletes, and to tell the truth, I am tired.

Love,
~M.

Response by Claire Shefchik:

From the time of eight seasons, there's never been a day when I haven't been working. And always there are foreign voices outside the door; up the stairs; some kind of Slovakian box social that goes on without bending; and I'm hungry. Don't ask me to explain my hang-ups about eating; drinking is acceptable; sex does not exist. I am a virgin a virgin a virgin. And I would do anything for a lobster bisque.

Love,
~C.