Reasons Not To Kill Yourself Today, No. 7: Lindsay Lohan’s Going to Jail Again; Justice Lives?

Belatedly: Happy Easter, Lindsay Lohan! Go directly to jail and do not collect your Mini Eggs. Don’t worry, though. They sell them year round now. That’s a reason not to kill yourself any and every day. And yet I’m going to keep writing. Stay with me.

I think a lot of depression is just feeling oppressed. Like, the world’s not fair. As small things, we were deeply aware of this unfairness.We screamed about it often and loudly and especially when someone else got the bigger half of the popsicle. Then we grew up or whatever. Now when we think of oppression we think of Marxism (there is still European History in our heads) and then think of something else as quickly as possible. Some of us, anyway. Rest of us just get sad.

Lots of people are just as sad as Lindsay Lohan, but I don’t know how anybody could be sadder. Every photo of her, every interview, just reeks of lithium and bulimia. She does every [alleged] drug and sells her tweets. Maybe she has nothing to say for herself anyway. Someone once told me how she ran barefoot, crying, all up and down the halls of the Chateau Marmont, pounding on doors and calling variations of Samantha Ronson’s name. Most people who do flossy things in big cities have stories like that. I went to Paris Fashion Week once, and at Montana’s, there she was. Her eyes weren’t glassy. They were just glass. Like in a doll’s head. I looked away.

Lohan seemed born on the right side of every unfairness: redheaded (a rare thing, and before it was trendy), talented (she was, you can’t deny it), funny (same), pretty (same). She had everything, didn’t she? Oh, except the thing most of us take for granted: parents. Good ones. Parents who love us and don’t use us to make shitloads of money or become super-botoxed MILFs or get on reality television.

Still, girl was a fighter, and she had all those friends, and out of all of those not-so-bright young things it didn’t seem like she’d be the one to fall so hard. And yet. Now she’s on the wrong side of everything, mostly the law.

LiLo’s problems look so white-girl, so self-wrought, and she looks so dislikable now with her fish-lips and fake tan and her are-they-fake-tits in her slinky dresses; why should we be sympathetic? No one loves fallen starlets except to hate them. Besides, it’s not just herself she’s hurting. She drove drunk; she stole a necklace from a store. She doesn’t see why should be sorry. That one time in court she painted a middle-finger salute on her nails. This time she said the necklace was borrowed. Uh… huh.

So at this point, you’re like, and I’m like, Lindsay? Sorry, but you can’t not go to jail. We would like to believe in justice at least a per cent or two more than we believe in you, which is not at all, anymore. We who are not all Hollywood, if we drove drunk and stole thousands of dollars of jewellery, we’d be in orange jumpsuits faster than you can say “unflattering.” You can’t be special.

And we win. Lindsay Lohan goes to the slammer, again, and this time she has to stay, they say, for 120 days. That seems fair. When things seem fair, they also seem less sad to us.

Scooter Libby’s not in jail. The fraudsters of Wall Street aren’t in jail. Not one BP America executive is in jail, and no one really thinks they will be. Even Chris Brown pled guilty to beating the shit out of RiRi and didn’t go to jail. But Lindsay Lohan, suddenly-poor girl who was probably going to die Marilyn-style anyway, is safely behind bars. Sleep easier. Wake up to a fairer world. I guess.