Dear Lindsay Lohan,
This past week, you were arrested. Again. This time, it was for leaving the scene of an accident after hitting a pedestrian on your way to a downtown Manhattan nightclub in a Porsche borrowed from one of your Euro-douche artist friends that happened to be registered to one of the Real Housewives of Miami.
I know that’s just a typical Tuesday night in your whacked-out world, but sweetheart, that kind of absurdity should really prompt you to take a hard look at your life choices. For starters, it’s time for you to hand over the keys. You don’t get to drive anymore.
I know, I know. This latest incident wasn’t your fault. Nothing is ever your fault. Not taking responsibility for your actions is a recurring theme in the storybook nightmare you call a life, but hey, for the sake of argument, let’s say that this one isn’t on you. Let’s assume that the guy you grazed in the driveway of the Dream Hotel really is some shady dude looking for a quick payday. So what? Just because you didn’t bolt à la Halle Berry doesn’t excuse the fact that you were behind the wheel in the first place.
What the hell were you even doing driving to a club in New York? Nobody drives in New York, much less a train-wreck paparazzi magnet on parole with a D.U.I. conviction and a history of hitting things in her Porsche. Come on, girl. You should know better by now. Hire a damn driver already. He can chauffeur you around in another Porsche if you want, but please, let a professional with insurance get you from party A to party B.
It’s a shame that your mother and father can’t be the ones to rein you in when it comes to this kind of nonsense. Unfortunately, you were raised by fame-hungry wolves who’d rather be your publicists than your parents. I’m genuinely sorry that you are the offspring of such shallow, narcissistic monsters, but at a certain point, you have to realize that Michael and Dina will never be a positive influence on your life.
You’re on your own, kid. Sure, you’ve still got a team of lawyers, stylists and other assorted handlers, but you’re the captain of the sinking ship that is your career. “Mean Girls” was an awfully long time ago, and this upcoming Elizabeth Taylor made-for-TV monstrosity is going to be a disaster even by Lifetime Movie standards.
The sad truth is that you don’t have much time left before the pop-culture celebrity machine is finished chewing you up. If you want to be remembered as something other than a hot Botoxed mess, you’d better step up and accept some personal responsibility for your behavior.
Get it together, girl. Start acting like an adult before you flame out forever.
Yours in obscurity,
(Read my Unsolicited Advice column weekends in The Daily.)