(no subject)
Cutting is a cry for help, but who in Lindsay's world is even listening? Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay... oh if I had a dime for every time I typed out that name I'd own my own island. Our favorite freckled mess of delusion has been on her extended European vacation for the past couple weeks, hitting London, Italy and now the City of Lights. So far, unlike NYC Fashion Week, she's kept her destruction to a bare minimum, seemingly content to only break hearts and apparently, her own flesh. Celebslam has a gallery of pics of Lindsay out on the town while in Paris. She is accompanied by Terry Richardson (skeevy). While others are looking at her pantied-crotch shots, I couldn't help but notice the scratches down her arm. Am I the only human being who feels sad about this. Yes, Lindsay is a self-absorbed, self-entitled, spoiled brat, but she's also a girl in a lot of pain. Can we be open and honest here for a moment? Lindsay is indeed a grown adult and fully responsible for all the horrifyingly awful mistakes she's made (and they are piling up), however, like all of us, she's a product of her environment. Lohan matriarch Dina, is the worst kind of stage-mother. Like all stage-monsters, Dina lives vicariously through her children, using them as walking ATM's, ignoring their cries for help, enabling their most destructive tendencies and dare I say, seemingly leading them on a path towards an early death.* DUH!!!* Perhaps she has a life insurance policy on them, and feels that when they finally end it all (which is inevitable) she will finally get her big payday for birthing them from her vault. Whatever her demonic inner plan may be, it is not one concerned with their well being -- never has, never will. Patriarch Michael Lohan is human excrement. Enough said. So, when I look at Lindsay and her sister Ali, who at the age of 17 is clearly on a path to become a plastic surgery Frankenstein experiment, I hold their parents fully responsible. Both of these girls would have been better off being raised by deranged, drug-addled serial killers. For once, I am not speaking in hyperbole. I am appalled, and I know as a celebrity writer I should be unemotional in my analysis, unconcerned with the subject matter and all that other horsesh*t, but I can't. I am a mother, and my maternal instincts override any sense of detachment I feel. These girls needs help, but they won't get it and this is just another tragedy in the making. Blah, blah, blah, the end. Source PANTIES!!!
