January 18, 2007, New York City:
So, I’ve heard. Okay, I read…
I was on the express train downtown this morning, when, there, over some stranger’s shoulder I caught a glimpse of you, or rather, your picture. At second glance, because you know I was compelled to look again, I read the news—you’ve checked into rehab.
My immediate reaction was that it wasn’t the drugs or the meds of the drinking that was-is (are-were) the problem, but that simply you haven’t been gettin’ enuf love—shit baby, I know exactly how you’re feeling right now, darling, dear.
Guess you didn’t get my message then, huh? I wrote to you, some time ago, just to let you know that not only am I available, but that I’d immediately, no questions asked, no pre-nup even, marry you.
Alas, it seems that my humble suggestion fell in between all the other fan letters, the red carpet walks, all those talks with reporters eager to reveal the real you.
Little do they know though that you’re just as human as anyone else, extraordinarily talented perhaps, but still just as human. And that like a lot of other girls you want to marry and make babies, and that essentially what it all boils down to is that, like other girls (and boys) you just want to feel and be loved.
That’s what the glitz and glamour and flashing lights are all about anyway, right? You love us by entertaining because you love to make people happy, love to see them smile and laugh and cry even; in other words, you like to make them feel. In turn, we love you back by screaming “We love you Lindsay!” from the other side of the velvet rope, and by making proposals from afar.
But that ain’t enough is it?
You’re only human, aren’t you?
I know, I know how you feel Lindsay. And I sincerely wish you a quick recovery.
Wearing My Heart on My Sleeve (for you),
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