When I was six years old, The Parent Trap came out in theaters. The moment I saw your freckly, bright orange face on the big screen, I knew it was love. And then there were two of you. I was so small, propped up in a booster seat on top of a huge red velvet recliner in the middle of an enormous cinema, sipping away at my child-sized coke and reveling in the wonders of butter-soaked movie popcorn, imagining the love-triangle that was you, me, and… well, you, I guess.
I bought the movie with my own allowance on VHS the second it came out, and screened it on repeat at least a hundred times. I’d sit on the blue shag rug in our basement, cross-legged and completely enthralled and obsessed and bewildered. We had two perfectly compliant sofas in our basement, but I needed a better look. I needed to get closer to you, girl. I needed to know more.
Over a plate of Oreos and peanut butter (thanks for the snack tip, by the way), I discussed with my best friend/next-door neighbor at the time, Lisa, as to which twin was her favorite.
“I think I like the British one,” I’d start the ball rolling, “She’s just as sassy and fun, but she’s just a little more refined.”
“They’re the same person, idiot.” She fired back, plainly, shoving a double-stuffed coated in creamy PB down her esophagus. I was floored.
Sure enough, you were only one. There was just you. But that was a-okay, because you were all I needed, girl.
While I went through puberty, you went through with Mean Girls, and eventually, you released an album. Your hair was the color of a sunset, and not just any sunset, but those majestic, picturesque, movie quality sunsets that only really ever happened in The Lion King. You were hilarious alongside Tina Fey and Rachel McAdams. In short, you were “grool.” You had a voice that made me weak, and you didn’t give an F what anyone thought. Remember Rumors? You couldn’t be tamed even before Miley Cyrus. You taught us to be unafraid and unapologetic, you taught us to try new things, and you taught us that you have really bad breath in the morning. Ew.
I don’t really remember what happened after that. I could do my research, but it’s not so much that I don’t remember, as much as it is that I don’t want to remember. All of a sudden, you turned into this confusing mess of drunk and cooter and Herbie: Fully Loaded and Sam Ronson (which was so weird at the time, but totally chic in retrospect).
Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I think about what keeps you awake at night (other than the cocaine, OBV). Sometimes, I wonder if we have the same thoughts, like what we’re going to talk about during our next Jay Leno interview, or that Herbie: Fully Loaded was probably not your best idea. Do you think that too? Do you have regrets? If you got a do-over, which event would you have actually worn panties to? Do you even remember Herbie: Fully Loaded? Is Paris Hilton still alive? Where are you? Are those two separate questions?
I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Dennis Quaid and I will always be here for you. Because at the end of the day, you might have stolen a necklace and gotten a DUI or twelve, you might have done your time in community service and violated the odd probation, you might have that weird, yellow smokers’ tooth thing happening, and then there’s that Playboy spread that… unclear, moving on… But we’re willing to look past it all. You’re Lindsay Lohan, after all. The girl that always gets another chance. So here I am, begging you to count your blessings. Your dad takes too many selfies and your mom’s taken too many Xanax, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still hope for you. You’re Lindsay Lohan, goddammit.
I had two of you at one point in time, and now I have none.
Come back to me?
PS. I understand if you’re over Hollywood, it’s a Kardashian’s world now anyway, but can we at least channel these feelings into a memoir? Or maybe brunch? Call me.