I spent last summer as any aspiring writer would, with palm trees, a pool, soft-serve ice cream, karaoke, oh and there was even a night of filet mignon.  A cruise you say, perhaps my summer house in Malibu.  No, no, folks, that was my almost month long stint in rehab.  Institutions are a literary right of passage, after all.  Okay, so I wasn't exactly roughing it, but tropical landscapes and amenities aside, treatment was one of the most challenging experiences I've had to face.  Being called out on your B.S., realizing you're scum for all the unmentionable horrors you've done and having a tech follow you around is no Club Med.  So what if my life has played out like a PBS after school special, or even worse, a Lifetime movie, rather than the award-winning picture I imagined as a child.  At least I never got my close-up in form of a mug shot, and besides, kitsch has its appeal.