It's too easy to rip on Lindsay Lohan. Too easy. Everyone think's they're better than everyone else these #$%#ing days, it's goddam pathetic. Bunch of vulture's and paparazzi ganging up on her, tearing the poor girl to shreds. Ripping away every piece of dignity she still retains through the storms and the light. Like she's not allowed to make poor decisions. #$%#ing get over yourselves. So she does drugs, big #$%#ing deal. I do drugs every day. Am I a piece of shit? Yes. But am I going to make a great husband? Absolutely. I just gotta hit the gym and tone up my washboard abs again. I'm a #$%#ing maniac in the sack, I'm sure so is Lindsay. I'm going to make a great husband though. In between my rage outs, my sweating, my drug induced nod offs and wildly uneven temperament, my screams, my constant self destruction and needless violence, I'm going to be a great companion. The first thing most people will want to see when they walk in their house is not some shirtless young man, sweating and readying to fix themselves in front of a dirty white table. They will want to see their cat or dog greet them at the front door. Well guess what honey, Pauly had a nit fit and snapped the cats neck. You think I'm wearing a #$%#in' shirt right now? But you see, this is the way Lindsay likes it. She's young and rich, and has a taste for expensive drugs. She obviously drinks like a #$%#ing maniac. She does coke and oxycontin. Daaamn, I need to meet this girl. She could be the Kate to my Pete. I'd get famous immediately of course, and then ruin in all, in a blaze of gunfire and blackened spoons. I could even show her how to smoke crack. "No, Lindsay, don't do it that way. You gotta use more filter. Careful, dont' light it too long or you'll burn your fingers. Aren't you getting paid tomorrow?" Of course she's getting paid, and I'm going on a living spree. Start it off with new $400 sunglasses, cigarette burns in the Ferrari's leather, and end it off shirtless, desperate, nodding off, black circles under the eyes, Lindsay's mom won't stop calling, I just cut myself on a broken mirror, empty cans, empty aluminum foil wrappers and plastic bags with spray paint on the inside from too much huffing. I haven't slept in 2 days and who invited these #$%#ing drag queens over. It's high time for them to leave. Yes I say, get out. I'm not the one who's #$%#ed up, you are. You're the one on the medication, and paying your therapist $100/hr. Haha, just kidding, I'm supremely #$%#ed up. But isn't it more fun that way?