So now Lindsay Lohan has decided she wants to drop her last name and just go by “Lindsay”? Girl, two things: You are not Cher, nor Charo, nor Bjork, nor Madonna; and that is a really lame way to flip off your father, because in the end, the joke is on you. However, I have to admit, you look better here than you have in a long time:
Right? If it’s not outright well played, it’s at least much better.
Although, this being Lindsay, I can’t help but treat her dress like a Rorschach test. Up by her boobs there’s a ferocious-looking feline shape, and then down by her crotch the same feline seems to be drooping, sad. I’m assuming the dress is not trying to make a comment on the condition or quality of her genitals, so instead I’m going to call it a depiction of the fierce/tragic duality of her inner demons.
Then again, she would probably swear herself purple that she has no inner demons, and that the problems are entirely OURS. So maybe I should interpret this dress as being a statement about how my own self-loathing causes me to project substance-abuse, attitude, and sticky-finger problems onto other innocent and delicate flowers who have done no actual wrong except I Know Who Killed Me. Yeah, I’m sure that’s it.