A 1930's Dear-Abby-type newspaper columnist struggles to come up with genuine answers for the bundles of nearly hopeless questions and letters that he receives every day from people signed Sick-of-it-all, Disillusioned, Desperate. Tormented by his inability to answer why people suffer for no reason or cause, he begins to have delusions that he's actually Jesus Christ.
“The Miss Lonelyhearts of the New York Post Dispatch (Are you in trouble?--Do you need advice?--Write to Miss Lonelyhearts and she will help you) sat at his desk and stared at a piece of white cardboard.”
Dear Miss Lonelyhearts--
I am sixteen years old now and I dont know what to do and would appreciate it if you could tell me what to do. When I was a little girl it was not so bad because I got used to the kids on the block makeing fun of me, but now I would like to have boy friends like the other girls and go out on Saturday nites, but no boy will take me because I was born without a nose--although I am a good dancer and have a nice shape and my father buys me pretty clothes.
I sit and look at myself all day and cry. I have a big hole in the middle of my face that scares people even myself so I cant blame the boys for not wanting to take me out. My mother loves me, but she crys terrible when she looks at me.
What did I do to deserve such a terrible bad fate? Even if I did do some bad things I didnt do any before I was a year old and I was born this way. I asked Papa and he says he doesnt know, but that maybe I did something in the other world before I was born or that maybe I was being punished for his sins. I dont believe that because he is a very nice man. Ought I commit suicide?
Sincerely yours,
Desperate
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