"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Hey, uncle. Whoever you are or wherever, I believe it is my time to say something to a now-entity-and-contrarily-rotting-of-a-flesh dead man. I knew your name, but I forgot. I wish we knew each other better, but I’m glad we didn’t. I’m too messed up. You know, problems and stuff. You’re the only dead person I’m related to, by blood. And I sure hope you’re the only one. I’m sure there were others, but I wasn’t born early enough to even know their existence.
I would love to talk good things, like how I’m doing good, or how I lived this far in my damned life. I wish I could lie about that but, to me it seems dazing and probably a little confusing to think how I badly want to live and to live good, and how I’d rather have myself killed than live a fucked up life. I guess that would be bullshit, and selfish. There are people who loves me even when I’m shitty, people who take me as someone of relevance to this pathetic spherical ball of land and sea.
It is very disturbing that I’m sending these words to a grown dead man who wouldn’t have understood me even if he was alive. I’m sure if someone took some time and read this silly letter, they would think I need help with my head. I wish someone would help me with anything, everything that’s messed right now. I don’t know, I just cant seem to talk to the living and tell them how stupidly empty I am to the last inch of my damn skin. Maybe I’m afraid, that no one would understand how I am feeling, just because they’re not me. I am damn straight terrified of having everyone there, but not actually having anyone.
At least I have these letters, and someone who would’ve read them and still not understand. But I’m glad you’re nowhere, that way I won’t bother wanting to know your opinion, would I?