Trying to write to an author, depiction of sedated Violet

Dear Ms. Schappell,

It’s a funny thing, really.  When I ordered your first published book of shorts stories, Use Me for the teeny tiny library where I was director, I thought little of it.  I remember its cover, mostly grey with red lettering.  It’s title reminded me of maybe something written by Jennifer Belle who write for a teen putting herself through college by turning tricks.  I thought your book was of this ilk, sassy, a sort of literary series of sex tales, not erotica, but a hipper, edgier Carrie Bradshaw.

This past summer, I was reading book reviews and noticed you have a new book out Blueprints for a better Girl.  I remembered your forgotten, shelved book.  Though I could see Use Me on a shelf, second to the top, towards the left on a second antique mahogany shelf, I could not check to be sure, as I had since resigned my position there. While I waited for Blueprints, instead of checking on the copy Use Me, I ordered your fist, published book electronically, though Amazon.   Several beats after my kindle received it from the vast cloud, I read like Gary Paulsen instructs, like a wolf eats. I read like a lonely, homely man fucks, and I read like a teen bathes in sunlight while she nods off next to an electric blue swimming pool.  I read like my life was ending any moment.

I have few friends in the real world.  On good days, I describe myself as “misunderstood.”  On worse days I am indeed the stranger.  And not in a Bruce Springsteen way, the Camus way, the lame kind

This is an example of me writing while under the influence of a sedative, too many sedatives, in fact.  I am so sick of my deep, deep need to escape. Fuck it all.  I have never taken a true "doll" by the way, only the major benzos they pass out these days to whatever lameasfuck chick needs 'em.  Klonopin, ativan, the general eraser of all that is good.  Eraser of any fucking memory ever.

Today I am withdrawn, dizzy, and feel like I will never do anything. 

I am scared.  I do not know if I am going to move back in officially with Mr. Z’s father.  My home that I am renting smells of mildew and it sucks.  Mr. Z’s father’s apartment is too small.  And I am not working.  My money is running out.  And I am completely exhausted all of the time, depression has crept back in and I fully think it is here to stay this time.

I am looking out the slider and I am also looking at the cat looking out the slider.  WE have about 65 K coming in between the two of us.  Why do we live in such a slum? I love Mr. Z's cat though.  Fuck, I am outta my mind today.  Will I make it back to the other side?

I want to lose at least fifteen pounds.  And I want to work.  And I need to finish my master's degree.  Bu all I can do is sit on the fucking couch.  DEPRESSION.