Lindsay Lohan is by far my favourite fucked-up celebrity. For someone who professes to hate the ‘Heat’ culture of celebrity-watching, I must admit to a bit of a Lindsay Lohan fetish. There’s a weird kind of pull that a story about Lindsay Lohan has. I wouldn’t go as far as describing it as an obsession, just a vague sense that she’s actually rather attractive and a low level curiosity about what she’s up to.
So what does Lindsay Lohan get up to that’s so interesting? Oh, just normal girl-stuff, you know. A typical week seems to consist of: going into rehab, coming out of rehab, substance abuse, rehab again, inappropriate men, car crash hit-and-run, back to rehab, alcoholism, ankle tags, more rehab and then a day of rest on Sunday.
Note that acting doesn’t appear to feature. At least Britney Spears managed to get an album out in between that unfortunate visit to the hairdresser and being admitted as a psychiatric patient. Lindsay Lohan doesn’t appear to do anything but conduct a completely dissolute life in front of the paparazzi. Sounds like an easy living, apart from selling one’s soul sliver by sliver to the insatiable media bacon-slicer.
I suppose part of the reason I have a soft spot for Lindsay Lohan is that she reminds of the sort of women that I used to fall in love with as a lad. Pretty, kooky, whack-job girls used to really ring my bell. The more damaged and hardcore head-fucked the better. They held a magnetic fascination; despite the fact their company was tedious, as they were so relentlessly self-obsessed. I really bought into that ‘I can rescue her’ romantic bullshit.
On the other hand, I might be fascinated by Lindsay Lohan because I dig girls with freckles. God, why do I have to over-complicate everything?!
Lindsay Lohan, clearly in need of rescue
