I haven’t written about Lindsay Lohan‘s ins and outs of rehab and jail because I don’t give a flying f-word anymore.
I’m so tragically uninterested in her plight these days (except to wear a “Why?” T-shirt in a fashion show) that I can barely summon the energy to write this post about how I don’t care.
I cared a lot about three years ago, when she seemed save-able and still had a glow that suggested she was a real star who simply needed some proper guidance and hygiene.
I cared even more when Lindsay hooked up with Samantha Ronson and they became a tabloid’s delight, entertaining us with their lesbo exploits if not with any major film releases.
But then things got messy again, and Lindsay clearly needed a really rough shower.
A bunch of busts later, the pop tart doesn’t seem to be helping herself that much. (Blaming the parents only goes so far, even if they are horrors from outer space.)
And the celebrity justice she often gets pampered with isn’t going to help Lindsay, either.
It’s only going to pave the way for her to go right back to clubbing and carrying on and self-destructing.
And yes, I know Lindsay is reportedly heading back to rehab, which is where she belongs so she can actually…
No, let me shut up now. After all, I don’t give a shit.