Dear T,
screw a) you, b) the quadraped on which you rode in.

No, not really. Of course not. But I'm really not doing well, and you are making things harder for me, and I am scared stiff of telling you that, and I have this unreasonable feeling that you ought to know all this, and how on earth could you know that when I'm not telling you, and it is all.my.own.fault. Screw you for not being someone you're not. Screw you for not genuinely liking me, when all I have the right to demand is your professional interest, which I am getting in abundance.

Sorry. You're doing nothing wrong and I'm doing everything wrong. I just hope I'll get out of this state of mind before I see you.

Sincerely, Mast, who would fail any student who wrote as incoherently as I do.