I wanted to write you something that would make you feel better and feel enthused and able to do your work... I wonder if it's in me. I feel drained and rubbed down and worn off, and I suspect you do, too, on top of which, you're sick. I'm sorry, my sweet. I know it's hard and I want so much to make it better but I don't know how. I know I'm better when I'm with you, so that's my only recourse. Leave this weekend to me, are you willing? I'm going to plan it and the only thing you can do is tell me what time started Fri. and ending Sun. I have to work with. Leave room for your work, because there will be no time in our weekend for guilt of any kind. That's not an option. I don't want to feel it, I don't want to hear it. So, e-mail me back or tell me what's up so I can get started. I know I said we should do this without planning, but I think our frames of mind are such that any stress could be detrimental to whatever sanity we have left between us.
I cried for quite awhile after you left today. It wasn't enough. I know you know it, too. (Didn't you?) Or maybe you were just too stressed. Thank you for the cookies, although after you left I had the impulse to throw them out, not because of you or the thought behind them or anything, just because they suddenly meant to me all the shitty, not-enough, abrasive or luke-warm pap-like interactions I've had in the past few days, and how you are almost the only person worth seeing on campus anymore, at least the only one I really want to see and if I blinked I would have missed you. It's not you, or me (unless we're slackers and otherwise we wouldn't be in such a tough stretch) but where we are and why we're here. I miss you. I miss myself, for that matter. I even miss Naomi, and Sandy, because I don't feel like I've been friends with them real-like in awhile. I'm also sorry if I was rude to you today because I don't think you were trying to make me feel bad at all, you were just asking. I just feel so tremendously guilty about this project, and I have such self-loathing that I'm hyper-sensitive. This is something I think is worthwhile and something I think I could have been proud of doing and doing well and I blew it off. I want to earn this woman's respect because I think she's the most frightening, inspiring person, but I think I'm failing. What will it take to inspire me to do anything? I'm unravelling. My edge is gone. I'm a bread-knife. I miss you. The only thing I want to do is take an interminable, hot, hot, shower and then spend the rest of the night with you. How far from that will we be tonight? Hah. I laugh at the utter cruelty. I have my scene tomorrow. It's a fun scene, and I think we'll do well. I guess. I'm going to go rehearse after this. That will take awhile and I wanted to work a long time tonight but I have to be up at 7 and then perform the scene. I guess none of this is life or death. I'm sorry for babbling. I know you have a lot to work on and I know you are dealing with crisis feelings. Don't panic, Seb. I think I can say that I've experienced similar things and it will push it's way through. That probably doesn't help. A good cry helps me, usually. A good, sobbing cry. One that hurts. Then you might feel like fighting a little more. I want to come over and hold you and let you cry or yell or something, but maybe that isn't best. If you need me to help you work through anything, or listen to anything outrageous, or register alarm and outrage, or say soothing things and rub your back for a little bit, let me know. I'll met you when you say. Or, if you're efficient and need to stay that way, you can just mail me. Or call.
Stay fresh, sweet tart.