Scapegoats and Sacred Cows

I mean it this time. I can only take so much. I’ve always been in the background cheering for you, waiting for you to get it together and be the star we all know you can be. No, the star you should be. But this time, honey, I’m done. I’ve put with at least thirty-two arrests, all those coke-snorting pictures on the Internet, you insisting you should be allowed to take Adderall in rehab even though you should actually be in jail and not in rehab at all, I Know Who Killed Me (that broke my heart, Lindsay), and Liz & Dick which was supposed to be your comeback but instead it was a steaming pile of Lifetime shit. But none of that pushed me to turn away from you.

Let me tell you why I’m so upset, Linds. I was in New York with my friend Jesse last weekend and we popped into a Russian piano bar for a quick cocktail before our reservation at Lucky Cheng’s. I ordered what was advertised as your signature cocktail. It was vodka, blackberry puree, and some liqueur that tasted like a dandelion’s anus. Perhaps you haven’t given your permission and have never even had this terrible flowery stomach-rot. But it’s just too easy to picture you enthusiastically throwing your name onto this disgusting purple concoction just because the owner probably complimented you on your boobs and gave you a free bowl of canned mushrooms with a side of oyster crackers.

It’s clear that now is the time for us to go our separate ways. If I give up now I won’t have any more of these bullshit comeback blue balls to deal with, and I definitely won’t end up drinking any more thick, purple things with flower extracts. Well, the last part is probably not true. But I won’t be able to blame you and let’s face it, Lindsay, you have a lot on your plate right  now.