This is why my blog is as good as postsecret:

Dear vain, manipulative, bat-shit crazy mom,

It's true that you bought me everything I ever wanted so I'd shut my fucking trap when you were going on dates with doctors, lawyers and Gary Hart; and even more true that you funded my outrageous coke and booze habit so I thought life was pretty effing good because you didn't want your stupid ladies-who-lunch gossip bitches to know I was fucked up (better to keep me in drugs than to send my ass off to rehab), but then I was shaking like an epileptic with her fingers in an electric socket from withdrawals in some shitty state-funded rehab facility with one bag holding everything I owned and a bunch of cracked-out scaries asking me for cigarettes and quarters and cornering "spoiled little white girl", and after my red crocodile bag was lifted and the nurses laughed in my face when I asked them to do something about it and I woke up in my own piss and vomit (and, judging by the sheets, was not the first to do such a thing in that very same bed), and after I left rehab and lived in sqaulor but got my life back together and found a wonderful boyfriend who spoils me rotten and makes me laugh and is sexier than Davy Jones from the Monkees back when the Monkees were popular:

No thanks, I'm not interested in going to Thanksgiving dinner this year. Thanks anyway for the invite; I'll be going elsewhere.

Kisses and big apologies for any embarassment I may have caused,
AB