If you don’t want to know don’t read this.

I used to be better. I used to know I could be something, but I realized:

My films will never suck. As long. As I don’t make them.

As long as they’re in my head, they have the potential of being the finest work of art in the history of fucking Florida.

But I feel, right now, that me translating that story. Well I’ll fuck it up.

I feel, that way.

I again feel like driving away. I again feel like I’m nothing and that driving away will make me something, will give me something, will grow with me, will make me an artist.

I’m getting fatter. I’ve said this before, sometimes knowing the next day I’d wake up fine, but I am now literally chubbing it up.

I’m sick of writing letters to Sarah. All I really have to say to her is that I love her and I miss her, all the rest is really bullshit, what’s going on, etc, and although I do, I care about her, and I don’t feel like saying how I am because I love her. And that’s all I want her to know.

I want to be mysterious and I’d like if I had no friends right now, I wish I was alone, I wish I was miserable.

(Wish I wasn’t so putting-myself-down-lately.)

I wanna make out. I wanna stop hanging out with you Ever Again. I want to admit things to You I’d never admit to anyone.

I Am So Scared. What’s so special about this, I mean for God’s sake he’s the one I’m the too.

For God’s sake. If I could only open myself up for my scripts. If only Mike would understand that I’m running ideas by him, and I honestly just want to write My script with Me and that outside views are only needed when I tell you I need them, when I’m stuck, and I’m not always stuck, I’m hardly ever, but you make me feel dis-talented and you make me feel like I Have No Story To Tell.

(Or maybe that’s just me.)

Ideas, Mike. It’s mine, it’s my baby, Mia. Me…Uh. Yeah.

This is my diary, too. One. Sarah. I feel like I’m in love with her. But I can never tell her. I don’t even know what in love is what the fuck what it is. What the fuck is how do you know, you know?

How do I know I just don’t love her more than a friend does. Where does friend end and something more but less start. Does she know that I don’t care if I end up with her all I care about is being in love with her, if I am, and her not caring. And it not being weird. And all I want is friend. But I don’t want her to feel weird cuddling with me, I don’t like her like that I don’t think, and I just love her –

I don’t understand really why I’m talking all this shit. I know I’m going to send this to her, scratch the last two letters away (that I didn’t get to send yet) and just send her an entry like this one which really tells how I feel.

I love You sarah. That’s all I have to say to you till you get back. I might be in love with you. (Fuck the pictures I was gonna send you.)

(I’ll still send you one.)

So I might be in love with you, but it’s not like anyone else would think, I think you know, I mean we’ve talked before about it, I don’t know why I’m saying it again, I guess because I can’t say it anymore ‘cause you’re not here and I might as well, but on paper it just seems weird.

I think you’ll always know what I mean.

Also, I know this won’t happen, but when you get back I’d like you to trust me more with borrowing things. I fucked up a lot with your things but I wanna feel your trust, if not, if you think basing your trust on borrowing things is unjust and stupid, then you are probably right, I just feel down in the dumps, and if you like when you get home I’ll give you those two other letters, but not now, this is all I want you to read.

I won’t be writing you again (unless I get happier) because I just want you to know this letter.

And I want a big fucking hug when you get home, and maybe me showing you how sad I’ve been for the past few days (the not taking of anti-depressants catching up again) will make you more eager to make me happy.

I don’t know what to do. I just want my best friend back. I just would like to be able to kiss your cheeks, to write letters like this all day long, and be able to Give Them to you, by hand.

I wanna hold your hand…

Beatles. Uh. Huh.

I have no good lines in mind for my movie. Do most people? I guess I have a few.

And this is ramble now. I had a stutter, but it’s mostly gone away now. I don’t care about making you laugh in my letters now.

Reiterating is key in my letters.

I am lonely as Fuck (and) I Need You.

Fuck Mia. Fuck You-Uh. Fuck Us-Uh.

I’m fat-uh. Fat-uh than you.

I wanna be skin-eh. Or toned. …eh. I’m sorry, that whole thing was uncalled for. Completely.

Please don’t treat me different. All I want is differently the same than anyone else.

Treat me bad and then tell me what you really think.

(I’m not mad at you in anyway, just writing, I think you can tell I miss you, and “Mia” is my movie I’m writing, I don’t know if I ever told you, probably was in one of the scratched letters.)

Sigh.

Phew.

(And the un-capitalized “you” up there with the “stop hanging out forever was Amanda, not you. I never wanna be turned on again by her. I feel like I’d give in, if I were lonely enough.)

(No. I feel like I’d push her to give in to make me give in to making out to do something, it’d feel good for a moment, I’m sure.)

I’ll see you on the 19th.