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Dear Lindsay Lohan

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Dear Lindsay,

We need to talk. For all of us.

Legions of girls, such as myself, idolized you. And we miss you terribly. You were the only ginger I've found attractive. Besides Prince Harry, and maybe this one girl, Jeanine, at summer camp.

You fostered a following of girls like me -- that for the first time dipped Oreos in peanut butter, and wondered if we had a long-lost twin that we would encounter and then hate and then love and then prank our parents and our nannies would fall in love.

We loved you, and I think a part of me still does.

Where is that girl who won back Dennis Quaid in a beautiful house in Napa? (I've never been to Napa, but I imagine it's nice and I have a babysitter and a golden retriever and not an evil witch stepmom named Meredith. Really, is that the only character named Meredith out there?)

Where are the freckles? Where is this dress? Is it sitting in a closet somewhere?

You're even from Long Island, and I know 16 people who know you via three degrees of separation, which to me is still impressive. I even know a boy who supposedly felt you up in seventh grade (it's unconfirmed). You were a trendsetter for millions of girls like me -- from dresses to boyfriends to attitudes to red hair. We idolized you in all of your lip-gloss glory. You wore a blue Juicy zip-up, and I had them in 16 colors. You were cool and popular and pretty, and everyone wanted to be you.

I even loved it when you switched bodies with your mom, Jamie Lee Curtis.

In fact, Freaky Friday is one of the best books of all time. I still randomly and irrationally (very, very irrationally) fear that I will switch bodies with someone whose job I don't know how to perform -- Broadway star, chef (besides egg boiling), Lamar Odom. You made us like your music, which wasn't half bad, and certainly better than Kim's, Paris', and any Real Housewife combined.

And what about you in Mean Girls? It wasn't a movie, it was a teenage revolution. GLEN COCO is a recognized American name. It put Tina Fey on the cinematic map. And to boot, Gretchen became a manicurist, which is my secret passion.

But then something happened. Somewhere between Wilmer Valderrama and Samantha Ronson, something went horribly wrong. You forgot your lancery skills from camp, Freaky Friday and Jamie Lee Curtis and Chad Michael Halibut/Murray were tales of yore. It was parties, and Paris, and not the city.

Somewhere along the road, it all fell apart. And your mom got involved, and not in a momager Kris Jenner way, in a Tan Mom way. And then there were the leggings, which were great in theory for girls like myself, who from ages 18-23 didn't put on pants with waistbands, but it just didn't work out. And neither did the Seven Nyne spray tanning. And then to the partying, and the ankle bracelets, and the plastic surgery.

Stop letting Emma Stone, as much as I love the girl, be our redheaded female leader. It's time to take back the torch (fire, flame, insert red-hair analogy).

We miss you.

Please pull it together, for all of us. We are all a part of you. We are all a part of your Freaky Friday hair extensions. And I think the blonde is a mistake.

Love,

Us