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

Don't you remember those cute brainwashers - god I wish I had one, but
then again. You know how you're a virgin the same way my father is
Lenin although I suppose all could be and when I feel that people hate
me, I just stare at my fingers - and I actually cut one. It doesn't
hurt of course, but all I've had to eat is seventy percent chocolate.
A pint of Grolsh went down into me after a gin and tonic, and I told
him all I was thinking and how I don't care that she's cold because
she's the one who refuses to wear things, not I, not I, never I, but
why is it always me?
He got real sad and hurt and tried leaving but I said stop and i said
no we shouldn't be like that, and then we weren't. Sometimes I wish I
loved someone and got distracted, so lost and away that I would give
less than a threepence about making everyone happy.
We're going to listen to jazz tonight, and I'm going to like it, even
if I am just eighteen.

Love,
~M.

Response by Claire Shefchik:

If I were you I'd like to dream about jazz for three nights out of five, and take the empire builder across the other ocean. I discovered that the only sign of real rebellion is to keep my hand down when the professor asks who is rebellious. However it does not make me popular; rather intensifies all hatred for girls who wear pink across their faces and are smarter than me in spite of it.

If only I could share all my knowledge of ancient Greece and the women who moved it, I might be able to get a good meal for once. I am the directress of the class today, watching my love story stabbed on the screen amid laughter.
Walking home crying will do me no good. Tonight I defended the placeyou camped in the spring and thought about moving back. To starve is to live in Europe; to go west is to know nobody.
And if I try to talk about Ireland it comes out in tongues.

Love,
~C.