"It's me! Lindsay! Star of Mean Girls and and Freaky Friday and... let's skip a few here... ah yes, those commercials for the MTV Movie Awards! And Ugly Betty! And now I'm working on something else!  It's this movie about... stuff! GOOD stuff! Stuff where I don't play a stripper who loses all her limbs, or anything! I think! Anyway, I'm back and I'm in cute shoes and my pupils aren't weirdly dilated and I need my roots done, because I'm REAL yo, and I totally DO NOT CARE that my mother and my sister are trying to get famous by talking about me all the time on their dumb show. I am NOT bothered by the fact that they have their own press appearances and paparazzi attention, and like, I SO AM NOT EVEN WORRIED about the fact that more people have talked about my sister watching grainy footage on the Internet that CLAIMED to be me having sex, than they have about my current career prospects! IT'S FINE. I don't need to resort to any dumb publicity stunts for people to talk about me, like having a reality show, or wearing really short skirts that might blow up if a gust of wind magically comes by at EXACTLY the right moment, or... ahem, i SAID, IF A GUST OF WIND MAGICALLY COMES BY AT EXACTLY THE RIGHT MOMENT... Dammit, Samantha, I gave you ONE JOB... oh, ah, here we go:

I'm pleased Lindsay Lohan is apparently booking a few jobs that give me headline material for whenever we want to feature her. And I think I'm supposed to settle for being pleased that she is not wearing leggings here.

However, I'm distinctly NOT pleased that she's forsaken the Spandex Scourge in favor of looking like somebody dug her out of their attic, shampooed her, and then brought her to Antiques Roadshow to find out if Marie Antoinette ever sat on her at a state dinner.

I would suggest that maybe her mom could stop gallivanting around being gross and trying to turn her youngest kid into a new meal ticket, but alas, I'm pretty sure Dina's influence would only cause Linds to streak on some leg bronzer and throw on some even CLUMSIER makeup, all part of the Lohan Matriarch's effort to make sure her kids look so prematurely old that she could pass as their younger sister. Sigh. Maybe Lindsay learned her lesson about unflatteringly short skirts when she wasn't allowed to sit down anywhere without a cater-waiter performing a panty check; however, in the wrong hands that could be interpreted as a dating strategy, so I should probably just give up hope and go meditate on lunch.

So, it seems that LiLo's leggings line is actually happening. I swear to God, I thought the whole thing was a joke. I am going to continue to believe that, actually, if only to save my own already fragile sanity. But at least she's stopped showing up places wearing them ALL THE TIME:

I don't hate the top, I love the shoes, I am amused that her jeans are as leggings-esque as possible, and I am not going to talk about the tan, the blonde Dina hair, or the so-1998 "Lindsay" charm necklace. Maybe she's just wearing that because she's really stoked about the Sex and the City movie, and tomorrow we'll see her out and about with a giant flower pinned to her label and a tutu skirt, making out with a picture of Chris Noth. She looks... fine. I guess. I don't know. I'm in that place with Lindsay where I am psychologically conditioned to care but kind of don't anymore. I think they call that closure.

Oh, Lindsay. Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay. Lindsay. Lindsay. Lindsay.

Yes, I am so glad you're not wearing Those That Shall Not Be Named. But must you replace Them with something that makes you look weirdly as though you're wearing one of Disney's Teacups? Is THIS how you're attempting to get back into The Mouse's good graces (because, dollface, I think that relationship is probably seriously unsalvageable)? You just look droopy, babe. (I'M TALKING ABOUT HER HAIR, YOU PERV. Er, mostly. A wee bit of tailoring on those straps wouldn't go amiss, but you didn't hear it from me.) Also, white shoes? For seriously? You make me sad. AGAIN.

Oh, Lindsay. Sweet child o' mine, why do you insist on looking like an 80s hair band reject carrying his girlfriend's handbag?

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Why? Why? So many questions. Why do you go out looking like this, and then turn around and do something like this? You are so charmingly Cady From Mean Girls in that clip. YOU'VE STILL GOT IT IN YOU! Why are you TOYING WITH ME like this? So many mixed messages! I can't take it! God, when will I find a starlet who doesn't play me like this? WHEN?

Also, it's mean to make Samantha Ronson walk ten paces behind you. I guess she and I can talk about it in LohanHab. AGAIN.

LINDSAY LOHAN: Hi, I'm Lindsay Lohan

CLAUS HJELMBAK: And I'm Claus Hjelmbak. I throw parties. Or something like that. Wikipedia won't tell you, so don't look. But no matter what I do, you have to admit that "Claus Hjelmbak" is a very cool name.

LINDSAY: I'd like to direct your attention to my legs. There are no leggings on them.

CLAUS HJELMBAK: You'd never ever call me "Claus," if we were friends.  You would always refer to me as "Claus Hjelmbak." It's that kind of name.

LINDSAY: Also, I have managed to have a red-esque hair color for more than a week. Admit it: you're totally f'ing stoked about this.

CLAUS HJELMBAK: Claus Hjelmbak told Lindsay he didn't want to see any leggings at his party. None! And, for the record, Claus Hjelmbak doesn't believe that Lindsay is ACTUALLY coming out with a line of leggings.  Claus Hjelmbak thinks this is all going to turn out to be part of that new Ashton Kutcher show where celebrities place fake stories in the media so that people learn that the media runs fake stories, or whatever that show is ostensibly about, other than potentially making it even harder for PR people to create believable fake celebrity romances for press. Claus Hjelmbak doesn't believe any of it! Also, I have suddenly decided to speak in the third person. Let's all do that tonight! It'll be fun!

LINDSAY: You talk a lot. Can we just focus on the fact that I'm wearing a dress? And not my leggings? Or anyone's leggings? No leggings at all!

CLAUS HJELMBAK: Yeah. It's kind of a BORING dress, though.

LINDSAY: GOD. YOU GUYS ARE SO F'ING HARD TO PLEASE. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? I HATE EVERYONE. SERIOUSLY.

Oh, Lindsay.

Can ANYONE wear a skirt covered in traffic signs without prompting snarky, 8th-grade level cracks from the peanut gallery? Both "One Hour Parking By Permit Only" and "Two Way Traffic" are hilarious messages to have splashed across your junk, if you're playing to the juvenile (as I always am). I can only hope that such roadside hits as "Stop," "No Right on Red,"and "Slow Children At Play" make an appearance on her butt.

The Setting: The offices of Paper Magazine

The Players: Two staffers: a stylist, and an editor

The Topic: Lindsay Lohan's upcoming cover shoot:

THE EDITOR: Do you really think she'll wear this?

THE STYLIST: Sure!

EDITOR: Is this a robe, or a tunic?

STYLIST: Sort of six of one, half-dozen of the other.

EDITOR: It's knee-length...

STYLIST:...with this crazy high-slits up the side. Cute, right?

EDITOR:  Yeah. I'm just worried it might be too...

STYLIST:  Modest?

EDITOR: Yes. Considering the subject.

STYLIST: Have you ever worked with Lindsay?

EDITOR: No.

STYLIST: Oh, honey. Don't worry. She'll find a way to make it look like she hasn't got any pants on, come hell or high water.

EDITOR: I don't know whether to be relieved by that or not.

It's been a head-scratching time for all of us, trying to figure out exactly WHY multiple Razzie Award winner Lindsay Lohan persists in squeezing herself into The Lycra Scourge during every waking and/or daylight hour. Is she ashamed of her legs, somehow? Are they nocturnal?

Apparently we can cross both of those off the list. Behold her leaving traffic school:

[Photo: Splash News]

Maybe she realized wearing leggings in a classroom would be an impediment to anyone else learning anything about driving, as all they would do is ask her nosy things like, "Seriously, how many pairs of those do you own? What is wrong with you? Have you fired your mother yet?"

However, now we have a potential new slippery slope to monitor. Remember when Britney Spears did nothing but wander around town in crinkled, ratty, miniscule denim cut-off shorts, replete with Cheeto crust and Federline residue and the muck of a thousand gas-station bathrooms, and it looked like they hadn't been laundered in about six years? These shorts of Lindsay's are rather evocative of those. Hopefully there is no kind of filthy, deranged thrall that jean-shorts can cast over a young mind. At the first sign of an orange fingerprint or a backup dancer, someone needs to intervene -- although if she shows up on TV with a flesh-toned bodysuit and a giant snake, let's wait and see how it plays out, because that could get interesting.

Well, it had to end. At the Fendi store opening, LiLo had on a dress, but the next day when she returned to shop, she hit up the Kaiser's newest lair in these:

[Photo: Splash News]

OF COURSE. I'm starting to wonder if she was wearing them under that dress the entire time.

Also: Nice makeup, there, Linds. That is some seriously messy, heavy, uneven slap she's spackled onto her face, and it's making her look unusually toothy -- like a deranged Easter Bunny caught gnawing on his own chocolate-egg stash. Do we think this is last night's face touched up desperately before a shopping spree? Or are her friends just like, "Oh, yeah, Lindsay... [snicker] ... it's great, totally great... [snort]... maybe MORE... hahaha, ahem, I mean, have some of my blush"? You'd think she could've checked her makeup in the sheen emanating from those dastardly leggings, but with this one, you'd think a LOT of things might've happened differently.

On the pro side: no leggings. Red-esque hair. Mesmerizing cleavage:

On the con side: well....those giant tulle doily hip-wings come to mind, don't they?

I was all set to make this post a "Fug or Fab," and then I really looked at it:

No. I don't even think I need to put this to a vote. She looks like a traffic cone wrapped in tissue paper and topped with a hastily made flower, like the world's most inappropriate last-minute baby shower gift grabbed on the way to the party as the gift-giver realized when driving past a construction site she forgot to buy anything.

And I'm sure there's an "unwrapping" joke in there somewhere, but I'll let you write it yourself.

We got an email from one of our attractive and insightful readers this morning, along with this photo of Lindsay, remarking that it looks like Lindsay woke up "and went insane," and I have to say that I agree, although perhaps it's closer to the truth to say that she woke up and continued to BE insane:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

And yet there is something about this that I almost kind of love. I know, I know, but it's just because she's SO over the top with the HAIR and the FUR and the BAG and the f'ing shiny endless leggings and the PRODUCT PLACEMENT that it's almost hilarious. For one thing, it's so low-rent to accept a surreptitious contract to promote a stop-smoking gum or whatever the heck it is that she's flinging around. For another, I feel like this secret celebrity product placement thing opens up a whole world of possible hilarity for those of us who enjoy celebrity-sighting: ScarJo ostentatiously gulping a Slurpee as part of her secret contract with 7-11, Katie Holmes waving around a package of Tampax, Paris Hilton gallivanting about with a giant bag of Baked Lays over her head.

So potentially, Lindsay has lulled me into an acceptance of her Leggings Habit, as I also think she looks sort of cute here:

Dear Lindsay,

[Photo: Splash News]

ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?

Bless,

Jessica

Ladies and gents, welcome back to LILO LEGGINGWATCH2008: YET MORE LEGGINGS. Our intrepid heroine has ventured out several times in the last few days -- didn't she recently say she was going to be spending more time in Long Island with her family? Was that a fib? Or was that just a way to get her mother off her back? Or is she avoiding Dina? Is that good? Or are we reading too much into this, needing our daily dose of soaps now that Passions is kaput? If so, does that mean I am also going to start seeing the floating head of Adrian Zmed everywhere I look? -- treating us to YET MORE DELICIOUS BLACK LEGGINGS. Honestly, people, I am getting to the point where I don't even care that she's wearing leggings. LEG IT UP, I say. I DO care that she's ONLY wearing leggings.

To wit, on January 11th:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

Is it me, or is she working a sort of weird Bret Michaels look here? I'm sure it's just the Tight Pants + Long Weave Under Funky Headgear look, but I am beginning to wonder (hope) if the "album" she's supposedly "working on" "in the studio" "right now" is ACTUALLY full of covers of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," rendered in different moods -- crabby, hungry, happy, wistful, coke-pants-wearing, bitter, etc.

We get a brief respite from the LEGGINGS on January 13th in the form of this:

You guys, we have a serious situation with Lindsay Lohan here. No, it doesn't have anything to do with substance abuse, bad taste in men, bad taste in movies, or her mother. It's the leggings. I know, I know: I just wrote about the Leggings Issue the other day. But it's only as of today that I have been able to step back and take a long view of the Leggings Situation as a whole, and, friends, what I have seen has chilled me to the very bone. When I said earlier that Lindsay only wears leggings, I was being hyperbolic, kind of like when I say things like, "I would rather vomit all over myself and wear THAT out in public than wear XYZ,"  or "that guy makes me so mad, I want to rip out his heart and use it as a hat," or something. But here's the thing: while I would never really wear vomit as a dress or use vital organs as millinery, LINDSAY SERIOUSLY ONLY DOES WEAR LEGGINGS.

To wit:

Yesterday, at Bristol Farms:

[Photo: Splash News]

Leggings.

The day before that, coming home from Italy:

[Photo: Splash News]

Leggings.

Insert here The Leggings of My Previous Post, which were interspersed (THANK GOD) with a dress on New Year's Eve.

Then, prior to the New Year, we had:

On the morning after poor Britney released what was left of her marbles to the four winds and got carted off for Ye Olde Psych Evaluation, it's somewhat of a relief to realize that Lindsay Lohan's most pressing problem (other than that swig of champers she allegedly took the other night, but sobriety is a process, right?) is her stubborn unwillingness to wear anything other than a pair of goddamn leggings:

[Photo: infdaily.com]

GIRL. It's not 2006. GET YERSELF SOME PANTALOONS.

Although, Obsessive Fixation on Leggings notwithstanding, otherwise you look pretty hot. Don't tell anyone I said so. GOD, WHY CAN'T I QUIT YOU?

(That joke's come back around, right? Whatever, it's Friday.)

No, Lindsay.

BUY PANTS.

And here, ladies and gentleman, we have Miss Lindsay Lohan:

[Photo: Splash News]

From the neck up, she's all Incognito (hat AND sunglasses! I wonder if she left her fake mustache in the car). But her boobs have not signed off on this whole Media Attention Is Overrated and Unwelcome thing. Oh, no, they haven't. And those boobs, they are INCORRIGIBLE. They will NOT be contained.  They pop out of things of their own accord and they are FIGHTING the concept that they -- and, by association, Lindsay -- want to take things easy and be low key now. No, those boobs have been locked up in Utah for MONTHS, and now they're MAKING A BREAK FOR IT.

And they're bringing the leggings with them.

Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay, may I be frank?

[Photo: Splash News]

While I definitely got all up in arms about your recent very bad behavior, what with the terrible driving and the drugs and the "That's not my coke because...um...THESE AREN'T MY PANTS, YEAH!" excuses and all the rest of the stupid-ass, knife-wielding drama you got up to this past summer, I must admit that -- as if you were an ex-boyfriend who was really self-involved and destructive and kind of totally CRAZY, but who was also kind of fascinating and intermittently hilarious -- I am totally ready to take you back, in a defiant but also moderately ashamed kind of way.  What can I say? If it were 2006, I would joke that I can't quit you. You are one f'ed up girl, but at least you're never boring. And while under normal circumstances, I would make some snide comment about how I'm SO SURE you're having lunch at the Ivy for the food and not because you totally thrive on the media attention you get there, and then I would gently wonder if maybe low-heeled ankle boots are generally unflattering on most people,  including maybe you, I truly am rather pleased that you're back in fugulation but not yet back in those pantaloons, or wearing a sequined tube top as a belt. Maybe you HAVE made progress.

Do you think the folks at Maxim looked at the proofs from this frankly embarrassing Lindsay Lohan photoshoot and just shrugged and said, "well, everyone knows she's totally strung out. Why pretend otherwise?"

At least, let's hope that's the thought-process behind running this extremely glazed-eyed photo of a girl with very well-publicized substance abuse problems. Because otherwise, it sort of seems like they might as well have subtitled it, "Nothing's Hotter Than a Vulnerable Girl With Daddy Issues Who's Only Marginally Capable of Giving Consent Thanks To Her Massive Drug Problems. She's A Mess, and That's Awesome!" And while I'm not the biggest Maxim fan in the world --   it's like Cosmo for men, and just as silly (I mean, seriously. "Clothes That Seal the Deal"?)  -- I'm pretty sure they're not actually making the argument that the sexiest girls are the ones who can't stand upright and are prone to throwing on other people's coke-lined trousers. I mean, at the very least, she's NEVER going to offer to be the designated driver.

Which do you think Elle is feeling more red-faced about today?

That they're promoting the successful rehabilitation of poor little Lilo -- maybe the pull quote should have read, "I'm glad I went to rehab -- I needed to get away from everyone and I didn't know now. In fact, I think I'll go back!" -- or that they've made her look exactly like Dina "The 'Everyone' Lindsay Needed to Get Away From" Lohan?

There are many signs that you're having a bad week;  you end up shaving your head in a rage, for example, or your hosting service goes down for a couple of hours, along with LiveJournal, thus preventing you from discussing the finer details of Harry Potter with people, or you get word that Madame Tussauds  has undressed your wax figure in order to dress you like a prisoner of the long arm of the law -- before you've even been arraigned!

God, Madame Tussauds, ever heard of innocent before proven guilty? It's not like getting caught for a DUI and possession of cocaine, like, a week after getting out of rehab that was mandated by the last time you got caught driving drunk with cocaine in the car, while wearing an alcohol-monitoring ankle bracelet that you made a great big loud self-congratulatory deal about and chasing a woman in car is THAT BIG A DEAL, right? I mean, COME ON. And adding insult to injury, it's not even a NEW set of jailbird rags -- they're totally Paris Hilton's cast-offs.

LINDSAY: So wait... where am I again?

KARL LAGERFELD: Imagine an astral Woodstock, pet. A DIFFERENT PLANE.

LINDSAY: Uh, dude, I'm getting on ANOTHER plane? I just got off this one.

KARL: No, I mean an EXISTENTIAL plane. Where are you? No: Where AREN'T you? I need to feel your elbows NOW.

LINDSAY: What the hell am I wearing?

KARL: What AREN'T you wearing, you PISTOL of GLORY! A dolphin, that's what!

LINDSAY: Why did I trust you to staple a sequined trash bag around my waist? God, I look so bloated in it.

KARL: Bloat is for sad people. DANCE!

LINDSAY: I can't. There's a bike chain on my head and it's giving me an f'ing headache, dude.

KARL: Then tighten it and climb inside. You're FASHION, darling! BE the bike.

LINDSAY: What I would like to BE is lying down on the astrology plane or whatever you said before, and NOT auditioning for the new Hell's Angels ballet. I think this is turning my forehead green. And the gloves itch.

KARL: It's like I told Michael Jackson: "If you can't love your glove, then GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, and also, only floss with real unicorn hair."

LINDSAY: Mom! MOOOOOM! Oh, wait. She's NEVER awake before midnight. God, I feel so alone.

KARL: Like an owl, she flies only at night...

LINDSAY: Hey, I actually understood that!

KARL: Well, accidents are the blueprints of fashion, luscious. Now SMILE before I staple a beak to your face.

Dina Lohan, if you want to be the next Oprah or the next Ellen or the next Rosie, or whoever it is you said you wanted to be (I don't listen to you much), you've got to do one thing. Okay, two things. First: step in and fix your kid. If Lynn Spears could manage to band together with Kevin freaking Federline to get Britney into Promises, I feel like there's got to be some way you can prevent Lindsay from being photographed snorting blow. I mean, at the very LEAST convince her to do it in private. The girl is ruining her career AND her septum. The other thing you need to do is throw out your culottes:

I have a pair of those. They are SHAMEFULLY comfortable, but I would wear them in public only if my house burst into flames. I got them at Urban Outfitters three years ago. And I think it's safe to say that if college girls have stopped wearing something to 8am classes, you need to stop wearing that something on the red carpet.

Or people are going to look at you like this:

I seriously feel like my relationship with Lindsay Lohan is sort of like the blogger/actress equivalent of a Lifetime movie, wherein she keeps doing dumb shit (the flashing, the serial dating/stalking of inappropriate dudes, the claiming that she wants to play Princess Diana, the rumor that she's dating K. Fed), and I keep making excuses for her.  Lately, we've been at the point where I don't even make the excuses here anymore, because I know y'all will be like, "GIRL. You have GOT to MOVE ON. She is BAD NEWS. This is just going to HURT YOU." And I don't want to hear it, because I secretly STILL LOVE HER.  So I make the excuses in my head. "She's just dating K. Fed because she wants attention. It's a cry for help, really. No one understands her the way I do. Everyone else is so mean." I know: it's a sickness. Next thing you know, Lindsay will stab Tori Spelling with a vegetable peeler or release a new Blackberry missive titled, "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?" ("Danger" being Kevin Federline and "Mother," I assume, being self-explanatory) or start an affair with an underage student as a means to forcing him to murder someone and then I will really have some justifying to do. Until then, I think I can handle this one:

It's....really cold where she is. And that's why she's wearing an incredibly long sweatshirt UNDER her cropped leather jacket. You can't expect someone to choose form over function in the arctic conditions of a small boutique! God! No one understands her but me.

Originally, our little LiLo had planned to wear her Shakespearean get-up to the premiere of The Tudors, but realized that perhaps she was being a bit too literal.  So she went for a deconstructed homage to the chainmail of Henry VIII's knights instead:

This pit-chain also has the benefit of acting like a de facto leash, in case she runs into anyone at the party that she'd like to have lead her around by the boobs. You never know: those Hollywood parties get KEE-RAZY.

[Insert obligatory statement about how at least she's wearing cute shoes here.]

It's widely publicized that Todd Haynes is making a movie about Bob Dylan that features several celebrities playing the part of the gruff, grunty, nasal "Like A Rolling Stone" singer -- including the highly female actress Cate Blanchett.

We can only assume, then, that a jealous Lindsay Lohan is trying to bask in the glow of Blanchett's risky genius by garnering attention for a project she thinks will bring her similar acclaim.

[Source.]

It will be a biopic of Poison's Bret Michaels, starring none other than LiLo as the man who made 7th grade girls everywhere swoon over the romantic joys of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," because it was a slow song and sounded so full of worshipful yearning that none of us bothered to listen to the actual words.

Now, the brilliance of her plan is: If, in light of his upcoming reality show, Bret Michaels is deemed too much of a sellout to be immortalized in an edgy movie of his life, she can easily segue it into The Sebastian Bach Story: 18 And Gilmore Girls To Go. Or perhaps a little something about the Nelson twins -- after all, she's had experience playing dual roles in The Parent Trap. Just get Dennis Quaid on board as the stern but lovable manager who had their best interests at heart all along and was heartbroken when they cut off their hair, and you've got some serious marquee value.

Dear Angelina Jolie,

We here at GFY would like to congratulate you on all your humanitarian work. We are happy you've made philanthropy the new black; there are worse things to make trendy, that's for sure. Like, say, formal shorts. So well done for giving a nice chunk of your personal fortune to international causes, and for opening your heart and your home to children in need.

Indeed, Angelina, it's the latter quality that has prompted our letter. There is somebody in desperate need of a mother, a real one, and since you seem to care about your children very much, perhaps you can widen the sexy Jolie-Pitt familial embrace to include one more person in peril.

Warning: This photo isn't safe for work, or for Maddox. So send him out to play on his ATV with Brad before continuing.

Because she's cranky that the media will no longer kowtow to her demands that she be its darling, Lindsay Lohan has fired off another classic missive punched frantically into her BlackBerry.

Before we elect her the official ambassador of "how our society should be educated on," however, we thought we should put this budding young teacher to the test by taking a red pen to her screed**. And, sure, everyone makes mistakes now and then -- we certainly are not immune -- but we do feel that anyone calling us to educational arms (among other things) should be fairly well outfitted with weapons herself.

Click to see large, legible versions.

** It's worth noting that there are only so many battles one can fight, only so much ink in a pen, and only so much space on a page. Ergo, the scribbles in red should be considered reflective of a larger and more involved path Ms. Lohan should take, and not the fully exhaustive edit and grammatical bitch-slapping that is likely required. We would, however, like to suggest that Dina Lohan stop yapping about looking out for Lindsay and instead take action via some Learning Annex classes. We hear DeVry can also help.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

You've had quite a year.  Star Magazine claims you OD'ed at the Chateau Marmont before Thanksgiving, and that the doctor who allegedly revived you allegedly found a ton of alleged drugs in your  alleged room. You're allegedly going to AA (considering that your rep has confirmed this, apparently the second A stands for "actors"), but that doesn't seem to be taking.  You're allegedly a cutter -- something I learned all about from such Lifetime movies as I Cut Myself So I Can Feel Again, Not Without My Exacto-Knife, and Ow! I Really Hate My Life.  People made fun of you when you wrote a heartfelt note about Robert Altman's death and misspelled "adequate." Come on -- that was kind of funny! You kicked off the current parade of Starlet VaJayJay that we're all suffering through. You broke up with like nine dudes. You called Paris Hilton a word we can't reprint here -- ON VIDEO! -- and then told us all that you don't know why everything thinks you dislike her. You got publicly reprimanded for tardiness and a poor work ethic by the people at Morgan Creek. You crashed your car at least once.  I'm sure other stuff happened that I don't currently recall. Basically,  you are a MESS.

And while I love the color you're wearing here, I'm pretty sure that wearing a  pillowcase is not going to make you feel much better about yourself. 

We miss the Mean Girls you.

Love,

Jessica

Lindsay, dude. We know.

[Photo by X17, used with permission]

No need for an arrow -- we've all seen the crotch shots already.

PS: Would it kill you to buy some undies?

Oh SWEET JESUS:

This is so, so questionable.  Lindsay, babe, we haven't talked about you much recently -- mostly because there are only so many ways you can say, "Honey, please stop partying so much.  We're worried that you're blowing all your talent on [REDACTED ON THE ADVICE OF OUR LAWYER], doing too much [REDACTED] and spending all your money on [REDACTED]. Also, put on some pants" -- but I must speak up now.  I've seen chicer, more flattering cotton sacks in the Bulk Grains aisle in Whole Foods. You look like a bag of flour. Why must you continue to lash out at me in this fashion? Why do you still want to hurt me? Can't you just let me live? Can't you just leave the house in something attractive once and a while? I know you're going through a break-up, but is that my fault? Please stop torturing me like this. Also, put on some pants.

We've been pretty patient with Lindsay Lohan lately. She's allegedly been trying to get it together, albeit with a few missteps and a crotch flash, and we were totally encouraged by the news that she was both dating an alleged clean-living advocate and had a screaming match with her no-good self-involved slag heap of a mother -- not that we advocate screaming at mothers, but since Dina has firmly and unhealthily (for her child) entrenched herself in the "boozy sorority sister" category rather than the "parent" one, we feel little remorse. And so word of their little spat gave us a reason to hope that maybe, maybe, Lindsay was going to shake off Dina's evil talons and get some ACTUAL advice and help from someone with ACTUAL maternal impulses and ACTUAL sense. (It's a crying shame when we feel more motherly toward her than most other people.)

But then, poor Lindsay had her little breakup hissyfit/makeup sex with Harry Morton, and it turns out she's just as unstable and co-dependent as ever. And in many ways, we still feel for her. She's young, she's wasting her talent, and she has no one out there giving her any real guidance except for a guy whose chain of restaurants is named after a particularly repulsive euphemism for female genitalia.

Still, there is no excuse for this:

[Photo courtesy of X17online.com.]

It's bad enough that she is wearing leggings, and indeed, leggings that are wholly exposed. But the real problem is that she's dragging Queen into her bloated abyss of dysfunction. Do NOT besmirch Queen with your ill-fitting, off-the-shoulder, faux-pants-loving fashion crimes, Lindsay! Do not taint Freddie Mercury and his musical legacy with that spandex stink. Please let him break free. He wants to; he said so in song.

And, please don't spill your energy drink, aptly named "Rehab" (I'm not kidding), all over it -- I suspect you need every suggestively named drop.

Okay. So I know I wasn't going to talk about her anymore. I needed to move on, remember? I needed to find a new starlet to love despite the fact that everyone else hates her, despite the fact that she can't dress herself, despite the fact that I really don't get along with her mother. I needed to find another actress I hate to love.  Maybe Kiki Dunst? Sure, she can't dress herself, but she DOES seem like she might be amusing to hang out with.  I think she'd probably be willing to spend a Saturday tagging along with you on your boring errands, making rude cracks about all your most heinous ex-boyfriends and eating an entire bag of Salt and Vinegar potato chips in the car. That's an important skill. And her mother owns a spa, so, hey: free waxing!  But when it comes right down to it, it's been hard to move on, people. When Brandon Davis launched The Firecrotch Diatribe,  I almost cracked.  No one talks about my girl like that, even if she IS running around town in a garbage bag and pleather pedal-pushers.

But now, I have to break my silence:

Look, I don't know what Lindsay's doing when she goes out. Is she drinking? I surely don't know. Is she dabbling in something more illicit? I certainly have no idea.  However, it does seem to me that if she DOESN'T want people SUSPECTING that she's doing anything other than dancing, drinking Diet Coke, and dating several men who live in Europe, she needs to not dress like this. Because, seriously? Drugs are pretty much the only rational explanation.

Okay, Dina Lohan. It's time. We need to have some words.

First off, I hate what you're wearing. No drop-waisted shift should plunge as far down as your crotch. You look misshapen. I'm sure you figured this was a savvy, alluring technique for getting people to stare at it -- and, mission accomplished, because indeed they are, but only to wonder why you are treating your groin like some kind of marquee spot on your body when you can't even muster any concern for what's happening to the child who shot out of that groin 20 years ago.

Because, Dina, she is f'ed up. MAJORLY f'ed up.

Look at her a month ago:

She has a bit of sparkle -- there's something in her eyes, at least. It's almost impish. I call it "life." It's charming.

Whatever it was, though, seems to have been extinguised of late. Take, for instance, this photo from yesterday:

Check out her dazed quarter-smile and heavy lids, Dina. I wish I could say the other photos were better, but honestly, she's either got this expression of cracked-out bemusement on her face or she's mugging excessively -- there is maybe one photo that's in between, and even there, her eyes aren't quite focused.

And then there's this photo from the day before:

It's not as bad -- but then, she's probably on better behavior, seeing as she spent much of the red-carpet portion of A Prairie Home Companion's premiere standing between Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep, neither of whom would likely appreciate being the bread in a drooling-starlet sandwich. But you can't ignore that spaceyness in her irises. It's there. They're not connecting.

And day or so before that, here it is again:

Look into her face, Dina. Again, I wish this were just one bad photo, but they're all like this. Do you not see? How are you letting this happen? You're very clearly around her a lot, and you have a reputation for liking to club and schmooze through The Scene almost as much as your child does, so you can't plead ignorance of all the temptations. You know. And, I'm not insisting she's skiing down a mountain of fresh white Colombian snow or anything, but... LOOK AT HER. I'm not kidding, hag. Something's either missing or overmedicated or has been beaten into submission, and not for nothing, she was parading around with Kate Moss recently like they'd been surgically conjoined.

Even if her recent inability to look sober or cognizant in photographs is a bit startling, Dina, it's still not surprising given that for years now we've watched her turn into an undirected party girl. Where have you been? Yeah, I know, your husband, the rage, the jail, blah blah blah, it was all really tragic. I get that. But I don't think a competent mother would have let that deter her from protecting her kids -- actually, wouldn't it have made most moms more protective even under normal, non-Hollywood circumstances? Don't you GET that child actors need a lot of common-sense support so they don't lose their heads and fry their brains? Don't you get that a feud-prone child actor with severe Daddy issues might need even more of that common sense support? And as you watched her go through a heartbreaking public breakup and the subsequent Russian roulette of one-night-stands, did it not occur to you that she might need all the aforementioned help plus a dash of tough love? Have you NEVER watched the E! network? Are you somehow, impossibly, ridiculously confused about what exactly goes into a True Hollywood Story, and how the franchise has sustained itself largely on coked-out men and women who shot to stardom too fast and couldn't cope? Remember the cast of Diff'rent Strokes?

Know what scares me the most, though?

The fact that you have more of them to ignore. I can only hope they don't get sucked into the vortex. How creepy is this photo? Your younger child -- you remember her, right? -- looks sort of tragically amused that Lindsay is squeezing onto her to tightly, perhaps because she's aware that if she leaves, Lindsay and her droopy eyelids will go careening backwards into the brick wall.

So here's the deal, Dina: DEAL WITH THIS STUFF. Don't just sweep it under the rug or line it up the evidence and snort it into obscurity. In the words of what's becoming our GFY mantra, "Sack UP, ho." Stop partying like you're 19 and help your oldest child. If she had any energy left she'd probably be crying out for it. Be her mother, not her playdate.

Listen, Lohan.

I know you're distraught over our falling out -- although I must remind you that IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT -- but wearing a pillowcase out and about isn't going to help anyone.

Lindsay Lohan couldn't hide her nerves. She knew the leggings and the beretmulke would incite one of Jessica's legendary rages on GFY. She suspected it might lead to a strongly worded document suggesting Lohan might be the bunion on the mangled, unwashed foot of the Mayor of Fugtown. She knew it might end with Jessica, broken-hearted and further betrayed, furiously purchasing copies of Mean Girls only to stomp on them, light them on fire, smoke some summer sausage over the flame, then hurl the porky pieces at the Just My Luck billboards while screaming a string of obscenities so artfully fury-laden that even Suge Knight might sit up and say, "Excuse me, but you really ought to watch your language, young lady."

But, alas, Lindsay's style train was long gone from the station, in that she had already left her pants at Brett Ratner's Stavros Niarchos's Adam Levine's Haley Joel Osment's Bill O'Reilly's Brody Jenner's house; the best she could do at this point to placate Jessica and save the life of many a bulging blood vessel was to beef up the red in her hair -- victory in our time! -- and borrow one of Meryl's caftans, repurposing it into a baggy 80s-style tunic shirt the fugliness of which she prayed La Streep's clout would obscure.

Sadly for Li-Lo, a righteous fug rage quells for no legend; the shameless Streep salvo missed its mark, and the fugtastic glow of her awful French boho princess ensemble burns undimmed. Naturally, Jessica was displeased. But I bring you word that we sedated her mid-uproar and she is now resting comfortably and in possession of her whole sanity.

No summer sausage has been harmed.

So THAT'S how it's gonna be, eh, Lindsay?

A nightgown over leggings -- LEGGINGS! WHY DON'T YOU JUST STAB ME? -- accessorized with a Hefty bag? FINE. FINE. If this is what you want, then FINE It's OVER. I LOVED you. I DEFENDED you. I MADE YOU MY AIM ICON, FOR PETE'S SAKE. And this is how you decide to end it? Well, I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY NOW. Because MY HEART is BROKEN.

PS: The shoes are still good.

PPS: My endorsement of your shoes DOES NOT mean I am NOT breaking up with you, because I AM.  But let's all remember WHY I am. BECAUSE YOU PUSHED ME TO IT.  It's all YOUR FAULT. I tried to make this work. I tried to COMMUNICATE. But you just wouldn't listen.

Lindsay is sort of doing that thing to me that boys do, you know, when they want to break up with you but they don't really want to have to actually break up with you, so they act all weird to sort of goad you into breaking up with THEM. Like, okay, first of all, she's dating Brett Ratner? Linds. Honey. Look, I'm sure he's sort of fun and amusing, but it just doesn't look good for you to be dating him, can't you see that? Why don't you date someone more age appropriate? What about, like...say, Topher Grace? He's a good actor, he's handsome, he's never photographed out and about all drunk and disorderly, he's never slept with Paris Hilton -- as far as we know -- he seems to come from a very stable family, and I'm sure he can read.  Doesn't that sound nice? Come on! Don't you want to be in a stable relationship, where you're not ENDLESSLY replaying your daddy issues? No? Okay, fine.

Then let's talk about the outfits.

The thing about this outfit is that almost -- I said almost -- every individual piece of it is fine. Working from the bottom up:

1. the shoes? Sweet God, those are cute.
2. those cropped little jeans? Cute!
3. a white tee? Who can find fault with a white tee. Not me!
4. the vest...made of....ties? Well....maybe it's an homage to Kelly Clarkson's Skirt of Ties in From Justin to Kelly.  Comedy gold!
5. the bag? Terribly chic!
6. the hat....okay, the hat you stole from Fez. Don't lie.
7. that f'ing pashmina with those IDIOTIC ARMWARMERS make me want to KILL SOMEONE, but at least they're a pretty color, right? And, um, you're kinda coordinated, right? So that's good.

But together? All this together? It's so Crazy Destitute Nutjob With Great Shoes.  THAT'S NOT A COMPLIMENT. Even the paparazzo behind you is all, "girl. PLEASE."

So I have a friend at my office -- my real office, not GFY headquarters, where "a friend" would mean, "Heather" -- who is obsessed with my obsession with Lindsay Lohan. The fact that I still have a powerful and unexplainable love for all things Lohan aggravates her in a powerful way that some might classify as excessive, nay, even dangerous. She regularly harasses me about this love, and attempts to shame me into abandoning it. But I have held on to the love! I have not forgotten the Lindsay of Mean Girls, or The Parent Trap or Freaky Friday! I know that Lindsay! I love that Lindsay!

But this Lindsay? Is getting a little harder to take:

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO DEFEND THIS? Her dress is made entirely of unbleached organic paper towels! I AM JUST ONE WOMAN.

Lindsay. I still love you. But my love can not thrive in this kind of environment. You have GOT to give me something to work with. This relationship is a two-way street, and the metaphorical car representing your end of the bargain is stalled! Or, more accurately, you have probably crashed it into a storefront.

Now look what you made me do. I made a mean joke about your driving. God. Our relationship is just unraveling in front of me, and you are doing NOTHING to re-ravel it, or whatever it is you do to fix something that's all unraveled.

Please work with me. I don't want to give up on us. But you're making it so very hard to hold on.

FADE IN:

SHARON STONE: And lemme tell you ANOTHER THING, Leslie!

LINDSAY LOHAN: Lindsay.

SHARON STONE: That's what I SAID. Lemme tell you ANOTHER THING, LESLIE. What you NEED to DO is land a role where you show the world YOUR COOTER. But you show it in a REAL CLASSY WHITE OUTFIT. REAL classy. So there's like a....DISPARITY betweeen the COOTER and your OUTFIT. WHAT'S WRONG?

LINDSAY LOHAN:  You're...just saying the word "cooter" really loud.

SHARON STONE: SORRY. Okay, SO THEN you spend the next five years dressing REALLY GOOD.  Like, CLASSY and GLAMOUROUS.  People are like, "sure, we all saw her cooter, but MAN, can she WORK A TURTLENECK." HEY, is that the guy with the CHICKEN SATAY?

LINDSAY LOHAN: I...don't know. Um, it's been great talking to --

SHARON STONE: SO THEN people think you're an okay actress and BEAUTIFUL and then SCORCESE puts you in a MOVIE and you get a GOLDEN GLOBE and then YOU MARRY A GUY and take a lot of TIME OFF and then your HUSBAND gets his FOOT EATEN OFF by a DRAGON at the ZOO and then you have a BRAIN SOMETHING and then more stuff happens and THEN you realize NO ONE IS HIRING YOU ANYMORE and so THEN you decide to -- WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?

LINDSAY LOHAN: You're just...it's...um. I'm...nothing. I really should go say hello to Meryl --

SHARON STONE: FUCK MERYL STREEP I'M TELLING YOU THINGS. So THEN you decide to make a REALLY PORNY SEQUEL to the movie where you show your cooter LIKE I MEAN REALLY PORNY and THEN you show up at the OSCARS in a dress that shows your NIPPLES and HAS UGLY PURPLE APPLIQUES OF BUTTERFLIES and you do your make-up using the FREE SAMPLES AT RITE AID with your eyes CLOSED. And then --

LINDSAY LOHAN: Oh god.

SHARON STONE: THEN you do your HAIR in a WIND TUNNEL! And then everyone WONDERS what the hell happened to you. ISN'T THAT A GREAT PLAN FOR YOUR CAREER?

LINDSAY LOHAN: [polite laughter] I really need to go now. But it's been great talking to you.

SHARON STONE: I used to be YOUNG LIKE YOU. CALL ME!

Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself, Skeletor. You're lucky we decided not to run the photo where your right breast is full-on exposed because the dress is tenting itself around your bony, awkwardly posed frame.

Remember when we gave you credit for looking better and healthier? We rescind that. The other day, we saw a guy use one of your arms to pick his teeth after a meal. That was the closest you've likely been to food in six weeks. Put things -- other than boy meat, please -- in your MOUTH, honey, not in the opening just to the north.

There are SO MANY THINGS I love about this photo:

1. Lindsay's shoes
2. Lindsay's hair color
3. Lindsay's pedicure
4. Lindsay in general. As regular readers know, I love for reasons even I can not explain, but which I expect have to do with: her hair in Mean Girls; her adorable ass-shaking handshake routine with the butler in The Parent Trap; the hilariously mean text messages she sent to Paris Hilton about Jessica Simpson that were revealed during those delicious three weeks last year when we all got to read everything in Paris's Sidekick; and how psychotic she got when she and Wilmer broke up -- mostly because I think we've all felt exactly that psychotic about a break-up, you know, on the inside, but never had the wherewithal to actually just go ahead and expose the psychosis to the entire world.
5. Even Lindsay's dress, which looks better when photographed from the front, and which I suspect is more subtly colorful in person.
6. Meryl's boots. Nice Louboutins, Mere!
7. The expression on Meryl's face, in that she appears to be warning Lindsay about us specifically
8. The idea that maybe Meryl is going to take Lindsay under her wing and whip La Lohan into shape.  Wouldn't that be an exciting development? I feel like Meryl wouldn't let Lindsay run all over town drinking and sleeping with inappropriately old men and accidentally running things over with her car. Meryl would have Lindsay studying, like, Strindberg, and practicing accents alone in her room until late in the night.  And then Lindsay would start crying and call her and be like, "Meryl, this is so hard," and Meryl would be all kind, but very firm, like, "I don't want to hear your whining, Lindsay," and then Lindsay could realize her full potential and I wouldn't have to apologize for liking her anymore.
9. Meryl in general -- I mean, come on. We're heartless beeyotches here, but she's Meryl F'in Streep. I have some respect, you know. 

Please notice, however, the one thing missing from this list: Meryl's dress. Oh, Meryl. Meryl, Meryl, Meryl. Did you know that the more I type "Meryl," the less it looks like an actual word? I'm concerned that I'm having that reaction because your kooky, kooky dress has triggered some kind of  seizure in my brain.

Prithee, Mistress Lohan,  whither art thou tights?

Dost thou not agree that when a maiden taketh on doublet -- howsoever bare -- and breeches and disguiseth herself as a lad, in the manner of such good works by Sir William Shakespeare as As You Like It or Twelfth Night, the maiden needth likewise spare a thought to the hairlessness of her legs which will surely give away her disguise, revealing her to be a lady fair and not a brutish hairy man, and puteth on some hose? And indeed, Mistress Lohan, while thy lack of tights will surely destroy the historical accuracy of thine perplexing disguise of Shakespearean pantaloons, thou shouldst be aware as well that in this, the first month of the year, the month of the pagan lord Janus, thy lack of hose shall surely also lead thee downst the path to that most dreaded of afflictions, "hypothermia," and surely thereafter to thy most vile enemy, "exhaustion." Thou are indeed aware that when thou last fought "exhaustion," thou emergest from Ceders Sinai in a form both skeletal and creepy. I pray, Mistress Lohan, if thou insist on wrapping thyself in the robes of thine Shakespearean ancestors, prithee, give a precious thought to thine health! None of us art equipped, either in heart, brain, or humours, to deal with yet another of thy stints in the infirmary. Not again.  No, not e'er again.

We here at GFY have a bit of a love-hate-love relationship with Lindsay Lohan. We love The Parent Trap (don't look at us like that), we liked Mean Girls, we adored the red hair, and frankly, we loved that she got Aaron Carter ripped away from her by Hilary Duff because, well, she was better off without that squirrely tick. We even secretly enjoyed her crazy Wilmer Valderrama obsession, breakup, and subsequent awkward club-hopping snafus. And we not-so-secretly cheered her on when she delivered big-fat-flip-off after big-fat-flip-off to her rageaholic father.

But we hated the emaciation, the blond hair, Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, the blond hair, Herbie: Fully Loaded, Not To Be Confused With Our Star, Who Is TOTALLY PROFESSIONAL AND CLEAN And Not At ALL Loaded And Has The Perfect-Sized Chest, We Swear On Our Lives, and the self-congratulatory PR trips to coffee shops with Nicole Richie where they'd pretend to eat food for the paparazzi so that people would stop blaming their dramatic and potentially tragic weight losses on either anorexia or cocaine. And we love to hate her music career.

Essentially, though, everything in the "hate" column was born of affection -- a fondness for things like her endearingly blunt interviews, because even when we thought maybe they were stuffed full of lies she at least mimicked disarming candor, and for the fact that she's a talented actress even if she is a pretty mixed-up 19-year old. In sum, she's an oddly rootable kid, despite not being able to drive worth a damn. [But we won't worry about her vehicular idiocy until she gives her keys to whatever boozed-up Greek shipping heir du jour she can pull out from under a rock.]

With all that in mind, then, this photo encouraged us immensely:

Lindsay, congratulations. You look chic in that delicious coat, and the dark hair looks fantastic on you. Never, ever go blonde again, even if the part seems to demand it. That only worsened that sickly-looking phase you went through.

We are also thrilled to see that you have rediscovered food a little:

You look slender but not bony, toned but not devoid of body fat. The collarbone no longer threatens to pierce through the skin; the chin you dieted away (a la Nicole) seems to have returned. Okay, so the dress pancakes your chest a little, and I don't think those are the right shoes for the ensemble, but generally you have a nice clean line and you look charming -- it's all pretty flattering.

But most important is the fact that you are, little by little, allowing some meat back on your bones and into your sandwiches. And, the dark hair is brilliant, even if you only did it for your role in Bobby. Keep it. Although, I still miss the Mean Girls red and wish you'd go back to it -- you've never looked better than in that movie -- but this, I can live with; this at least doesn't wash you out. You look striking, instead of strung-out. Work it. Do not let another jug of bleach near your head unless it's a necessary means to an auburn end.

Still, a final plea: If you really are dating Jared Leto, he of the stringy hair and the tendency to appear as if personal hygiene is a foreign concept to him, then ... please consider workin' it somewhere other than on his particular lap. You're young. Go get your groove on with somebody who's, say, in his twenties -- or who is at least pretending to be in his twenties (Heath Ledger, I have my eye on you, pal). Stay away from the brooders (and the Bruces) and go have some fun. Go find one of those boys on Supernatural and frolic yourself silly.

Lindsay Lohan is at peace. Because when she finally becomes the strung-out, washed up 49-year old we all know she's destined to be -- clinging to cultural relevance almost as tightly as Ted Casablanca clings to the English language -- she can at least recycle this frumpy shirt, because it will finally be age-appropriate.

In fact, I expect this entire photo, right down to the ... er, "tired"... look in her eyes, will be recreated at that time -- probably at the premiere of some summer extravaganza starring a Peldon spawn and little Maddox Jolie.

Oh my God, Lindsay. Pull it together.

I am about to sound like your mother -- or, rather, what your mother should sound like were she not too busy dealing with your deadbeat father to notice how strange you look -- so get ready. And stand up straight.

Young lady, do you know who you look like with your hair like that? Are you ready for this? Hilary Duff.  Yes, I know you're thinner than she is, and that's an entirely different discussion, although I suppose this all does prove once and for all that your boobies are real. Yes, I said "boobies." Don't "Mooom" me! As I was saying: do you really want to be running around town looking like a girl who was in a silly TV show and then made a couple of movies with boys on the WB? Do you? I didn't think so. And I know the hair is allegedly for a role, but I really hope you're not thinking about keeping it that way, because blondes have more fun or some cockamamie reason, because, missy, let me tell you a thing or two: you look like every skinny blonde starlet in town like this, thing one, and thing two? Thing two is that, for your information, redheads are all over the runways this season, so your real hair color -- in addition to looking so pretty on you, sweetie -- is really very chic. Yes, it is. Yes, it is. Blondes are a dime -- don't you dare walk out on me when I am talking to you!

I haven't even started on your outfit. What are those SHORTS? Why don't you just cuff them and we can start calling you "Baby" and making jokes about putting you in the corner.   You just look so messy, sweetie. And you're such a pretty girl, why is everything so baggy and ill-fitting and layered and wrongly proportioned?

You used to be so adorable! Come here, and look at these pictures with me. Look at you here!

What happened? Is it because you're hanging around with those girls? I told you I don't like you spending so much time with that Nicole Richie. I used to think she was all right, but she spends so much time in the bathroom. No! No -- don't you dare try and tell me she has irritable bowels, Lindsay. I will give YOU an irritable bowel if you interupt me one more time, so help me God. I have SEEN that girl and if her bowels are irritated, it's because there's nothing moving through them.

No, it's not "ew," it's sad, and I don't want you hanging out with her anymore. Honey, seriously. I just want to help. I want to help, and for you to wear either shorts, or pants, but not these Federline-inspired shortpris. Okay?  Now, I know you've had a hard time since you and WhatsHisName, Wilber, broke up -- sorry, WilMER, WilMER, although I don't know what kind of name WILMER is -- sorry, sweetie, I know. It smarts. It still smarts. Come here and let me hug you.

There, there. Now, let's go to Barney's and get you some real pants. We can TP Wilmer's place on the way home. Go get your shoes.

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Anyone whose fashion sense is a rip-off of Jessica Simpson, the emaciated Olsen, and a 1987 high school yearbook needs an intervention.

Generosity must be the new liposuction, for it seems that the flood of sincere affection and admiration that recently poured right out of Lindsay Lohan in sexy hat form has drained most of the remaining fat cells out of her: 

[Photo courtesy of Lime-light.org.]

No wonder she's "exhausted" all the time -- she walks around dressed like a <i>chaise longue</i>. All she has to do is look down at herself, and she automatically feels like a nap. Although it might help her if she ate a Philly cheesesteak or three. You have a lot more energy for being "high on life" and "drinking soda at bars" if you're not starving yourself. I think she's taking lifestyle tips from the wrong Olsen.

If there's anything lamer than a trucker hat, it's when a celebrity decides to personalize them as a way of showing her "appreciation" for the people who worked with her on a set. Yet such was allegedly the approach Lindsay Lohan took recently. Upon wrapping a project -- most likely Just My Luck -- Lohan reportedly distributed hats to the crew emblazoned with the sincere and incredibly touching message, "Love, Lindsay."

Such a gift is the film equivalent of "I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen," except in this case, replace "pen" with "crappy hat," and replace "heart" with "false letter detailing her professionalism, last red cent when I signed that gag order, and final shred of sanity." A Love, Lindsay trucker hat is the kind of wearable valentine that sits at the bottom of one's closet, or hangs jauntily from the handle of the plunger in the corner of your bathroom and occasionally catches drips after a cleaning.

One savvy entrepreneur, mindful that such a gift is both inexpensive and hilarious, duplicated the hats on a Cafepress store. We applaud that person's incentive, because the more apparent it becomes that Lohan's gift took no thought and even less effort, the better. Yes, 'tis better to give than to receive, yada yada yada, but come on: If she was going to do this, she should have at least gone the whole nine yards and made t-shirts with her face on them that say, "I don't know who you are, and I kind of don't care, but I hope you love me!"

Here's the thing. We here at Go Fug Yourself love Lindsay Lohan. We loved her when she was adorable little twins in The Parent Trap, we loved her perfect, regular-sized ass and pretty pretty hair in Mean Girls,  and we loved her Crazy, Boobtastic, Fez-Dating, Exhaustion-Having, Acting-Out phase. We especially love the mean notes she Sidekicked to Paris about Jessica Simpson doing blow, or making fun of Ashlee Simpson, and we re