some rejected letters to Dearest Madame Calm-Me-Down

I've been reading the paper ever since I could read and your column always seemed sort of stupid, if you don't mind my saying. I never understood why you would write letters through a newspaper because it seems like an unreliable mail system, as we have the US Postal service now. You seem like a nice mother-fucker, however that does not mean I'll puke my emotional guts into the Martin-Beach Paper's mailbox. You'll have to earn my trust first. I've seen you pull heartstrings and recommend xanax and adderall, but I don't understand your goddamn motive behind this play-acting therapist bullshit. excuse my language, I grew up in Boston. Backtracking, for me to tell you about my life, you'll need to tell me about yours. You been fucking anyone recently? 

unfortunately,

Anxious-in-Midtown

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Dear missus Calm me down, 

my dad said to me that your who people write to when they have trouble with something in their head. ive been having trouble but i cannot tell my dad in case it is capital murder like i saw on tv. it was on making a murderer and the tv turned on with it like it had a mind of its own, so maybe it should write to you too, missus calm me down, because the tv has head trouble i think. 

the trouble is that i cant help thinking i killed bernie. i was taking a bath and bernie was there too but when i left the bath i forgot to pull the plug out to drain everything and when i went back in, bernie was dead and drowned in the bathtub. he was sitting on the top of the sink when i left so it would be a bad fall if he fell in so i cant help thinking maybe he drowned himself. but making a murderer is making me think maybe i did it myself and that im being an amnesiac. i dont remember and they say that that is the first sign of being an amnsesiac. i put bernie in the dryer so he will be dry but i think he is dead. what do i do???

help

maybe-an-amnesiac

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Dearest Madame Calm-Me-Down, 

   Now I'm not trying to offend anyone by spitting wild accusations, but I'll spit [and put money on] that you're a figment of my procrastinating boredom. Everytime I open the paper to your column, which is the equivalent of 0+0, I see these stupid, absurd, not-very-clever problems that you leap to answer with your own groundless advice. Child watching too much tv thinks she staged her teddy bear's bathtub suicide? Bostonian wanting a hookup? How shit are those ideas, right? The only explanation for the absurd bullshit of these letters is that they're from my head, because I'm a full-of-shit absurdist, otherwise known as Dali (i'm kidding). Really, this is all a way to procrastinate my previously procrastinated homework, further endangering my scholastic livelihood (which arguably I never had). 

   My self-awareness is not so creative though, as I'm reading a book for the class in the language of which I am fluent (clearly Swahili) and reading a book that follows this format and this general tone. (Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathaniel West). Does this letter to you, Mme. Calm-Me-Down, make this post file under 'Blogging' or 'Writing'? Does being self-aware count as fiction? Technically, being self-aware in this regard often makes it more performative rather than genuine, which degrades the self-awareness itself. At least I'm self-aware about that too. (Which is the whole problem because if I was truly self-aware I'd recognize the stupidity of this moments, and this one, and that one and I wouldn't press 'Publish blog entry', but here we are, and I'm watching myself do it so...it's a lost cause.)

Irritably, 

Shitting my brains out in Privacy: Public (everyone will be able to see your Blog Entry)