I’ve put up with a lot from you, Lindsay. I stuck by you through the horrible movie choices (“Herbie: Fully Loaded”, anyone), the “Georgia Rule” letter fiasco and even the rehab stint. But this is the final straw. We’re done.
You became my celebrity crush du jour back when “Freaky Friday” came out, and you solidified your status with “Mean Girls.” I fell hard, I’ll admit. I had a birthday countdown clock on my site. I even gave you your own birthday post.
Along the way I said some things I probably shouldn’t have (as PooZ and Sarah can attest to) and you didn’t eat some things you probably should have (as my “Feed Lindsay” shirt can attest to). I lived through my fair share of pretty bad movies (“Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen” and “Just My Luck” come to mind) but it was worth at as long as you kept doing your thing.
Well, now your “thing” appears to be trying to out-do Paris Hilton and Tara Reid on the “crazy bitch-o-meter.” Well, I’m hopping off this wild ride. You wanna snort coke and get drunk and crash cars, fine with me. Just don’t expect me to buy “Georgia Rule” on DVD, don’t expect me to go see “I Know Who Killed Me” (which, actually, kind of disappoints me, since the plot outline intrigued me) and don’t expect me to keep watching “Mean Girls” every year on your birthday.
I know, you may be sad about this, but it has to happen. So, we’re done. Don’t bother calling me (on my shiny iPhone!), I won’t pick up. Maybe, in another world, things could have been different.
I wish you the best, and hope to always remember you as the vivacious 18-year-old who stole my heart, not the 21-year-old rail thin cokehead you’ve become.
Goodbye Lindsay. Enjoy rehab (again).