Letters to Moggy.

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Dear Moggy,

I have smelled a peculiar odor in my house that I cannot find. Naomi and I have looked for hours, and we cannot seem to find out where it is. I am potently perplexed as to what it could be, because it is unlike anything that has ever come close to my nostrils. I am so dirty, Moggy. Naomi is an attractive man, and earlier when he had on no shirt, and was moving things around, I felt something. I am so so ashamed of myself. This is my friend! And that's all he ever will be. But he is such an easy thing to gaze at. I'm listening to Dean Martin as I write, and I can't help my shoulders swaying back and forth to his creamy voice. Dean Martin is a gift to mankind, I must confess. Tomorrow since my automobile is not functioning, I shall have to walk to work in blistering heat. I dread it Moggy. My company is about forty five minutes from my house, and I cringe at walking in such heat. I need to rest soon. I am writing this letter rather late, because today I have decided to be nothing but a lazy slob. I do believe that odor could be something dead... Death is the worst smell ever, it would seem. I wonder if Naomi can be someone I can love. I know last week I was bawling about being hurt, but he is such a good fellow. Perhaps I am hoping for unnatural things. Naomi and I have decided to go and walk near the ocean tonight, so I have to finish this letter. I love you Moggy.

Your friend,
Stray