Maybe it’s because her mother and I share the same name, maybe it’s watching her from young pup to fox, but I have lotsa feelings saved up in my heart for Lilo. And when I see her cry in court, or tweet about her father, or captured by paparazzi in one of her many bikinis, my chest aches.

So naive. Every time she emerges from jail, or rehab or house arrest, armed with a fresh dye job I hope that she’ll do something great. And in a way she doesn’t disappoint. She stumbles out of a club, she strikes a bad business deal, she’s accused of stealing a necklace, she falters in her attempts to revive her film career. Tabloid fodder. And I get to see here everywhere, in that selfish way we all want to see our celebrities everywhere. 

And sure, I want to slap the collagen out of her lips, bash the Botox from her skin. I can’t take it. It breaks my damn heart. It’s as though she’s betrayed me, even though I must be stupid to put my trust in her. Our fake-relationship is bad, uneven, difficult.  The other option is to give up on my l’il Lindsay, and that’s a thing I couldn’t do. She’s a human being, one that I love unconditionally. There’s something inherent in my devotion, my affection, my desire to see Lindsay not necessarily be the best Lindsay she can be, but be the most Lindsay Lohan-like she can be.

My current dream job is to write a proper biography of Linds. None of that Tiger Beat (though, big ups Tiger Beat, you’re still awesome, keep up the good work) substanceless gloss. She needs someone to write her story with her in all her Liloness. Like all fools, I think it should be me. Because, yes, I’m naive. I believe, like most celebrity-watchers/pop culturists, that I have an intimate connection to my favourites. Like Lindsay. As though if we met, totes in real life, she would be on board. Shake my hand, make a deal, as though she has a reason to trust anyone ever.  As though she hasn’t been through the child-star ringer and come out feeling like a crumpled shirt.

Yes I’m naive.

Happy Birthday, Lindsay.

Call me.