So I heard they took you in. Don’t worry. It happens.

Not trying to spread gossip, but in case Perez Hilton is right about why you’re there…well, that happens, too. Mental illness happens. And when it happens you work the program and get off suicide watch and get fresh-air break, and eventually you get your shoelaces back and can go home and start over, which is the closest thing this life offers to a miracle.

I can see you as the intense and possibly troubled middle brother. You’re the Dignan.

Plus side: Your family obviously loves you–I met your brothers doing press for The Wendell Baker Story–and I absolutely guarantee you that women find troubled geniuses fascinating, especially if they’re Scorpios with big noses and publicly-documented buttlicking fetishes. I’d hit that.

The drugs are initially constipating, but sometimes straining to excrete is better than wandering around in the wilderness like Margot Kidder. Also watch out for dry mouth. Get some flavored lube for the buttlicking stuff. I can’t lick a stamp anymore. My husband is sad, but at least I’m not a greasy stain under the Highway 183 flyover.

So there you have my advice to you, or to anyone else reading.