Dear Lindsay

Hey Lindsay,

You don’t know me, but I know you — in fact, thanks to the tabloids and the paparazzi, I know way too much about you. (At least you weren’t drooling when they photographed you passed out in your SUV. At this point you must be thankful for such small mercies.) Anyhoo, I read the latest chapter in your “too much, too soon” saga — how your dad alleges you’re addicted to, among other things, OxyContin. Once again, a lot of cruel jokes come to mind, but frankly, I don’t have the heart to make them this time.

The truth is, it’s become way too easy to make fun of you and Britney and the rest of the party-girl posse. With your multiple addictions and eating disorders, you’re obviously crying out for help, and we — the media and its consumers — are responding with comedy, like a bunch of envious nerds watching the prom queen fall face-first into the punch bowl. Instead, let me say I’m happy to see you’re back in rehab — although in California they seem to build those facilities with revolving doors. I hope you stay clean this time.