Are You There God? It's Me Black Frappe.

Dear Supreme Ruler of the Universe,

Stop messing me. Oh don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I was in line at the grocery store and I saw what you did.

It's not enough to make me take a crippling pay cut, to force my husband out of a job, to hike up gas prices up so high we won't even be able to drive down the street, to cause the economy to nose drive. No. You have to rub my nose in the opportunity that isn't knock, knock, knocking on my door too?

I mean I can't find a freelance gig to save my life. Not even a little something to help us squeak by. But Harlequin von Trashy Sex Scribe gets to publish Shattered by the CEO (dun dun dun).

Shattered! By the CEO!!! This is, perhaps, the worst book title I've ever, EVER read. And someone, the author or maybe the editor, was paid to come up with this title. Paid actual money. Meanwhile, I get one last chance to pick up this steamy page turner before I buy my loaf of bread, aspirin, and eggs--along with the additional bonus of feeling like an utter reject because no one will give or my effing MA in writing a second glance.

Yes. I am officially broken.

Sincerely yours,

Black Frappe

P.S. Tonight I burn my diploma.